About A Boy
by S-Jay494
Summary: (Coda to S3 finale: "No Rest For The Wicked") Bobby and Sam ramble through memories as they struggle to face the first day after losing Dean to his crossroads deal.
1. KINDERGARTEN BODYGUARD

Title: ABOUT A BOY

Chapter One: KINDERGARTEN BODYGUARD

Notes: If you've ever lost someone, you might have experienced those sort of channel flipping moments when your mind just wanders around from memory to memory with no real pattern or purpose. These are some of those moments—one possible glimpse of what might have gone on in Sam and Bobby's heads in the hours following Dean's demise before the full enormity of what happened truly hits them. It's just some simple, short rambling thoughts and memories filling the time before the shock wears off enough to let the real grief and anguish hit.

# # # #

_Singer's Salvage, Sioux Falls, SD_

_May 2, 2008_

Bobby Singer had been around for few thousand sunrises, but the one that bled over the horizon that morning marked a first for the last 29 years. It was the first one in which his boy wasn't anywhere on the Earth to know about it. It didn't seem right. Bobby had buried people before; his father (gratefully) and his mother; his wife; more than a few friends too, but he took those in stride. Losing his wife Karen was the hardest to understand. Her death opened his eyes to a darkness he didn't dare believe existed, but somehow now, even after all the innocents he'd seen ripped apart by evil, this loss was different. Even though he'd seen it coming—had a whole year's warning and knew right down to the damn minute it would happen, it was still too sudden.

It was also colder.

Harsher.

Wrong.

Bobby knew all about how life ain't fair and had spent a fair amount of time preaching that damn line to the idgit in question during the last two decades, but the truth was that the boy didn't really need to hear it. He knew. He knew it from the time he was just dropping the description of toddler. It was funny, sad really, that after all that gruff talk and teaching of lessons to the idgit that it was Bobby himself who wanted to bitch and complain that this shouldn't have happened.

But it did.

His boy was gone. Dean Winchester was dead.

The horrible words stuck in his throat and stabbed at his eyes. Bobby knew pain. God, yes, he knew what it was like to have his bones broken, his skin burned and slashed open. He'd been kicked and punched and stabbed. Hell, his old hunting partner Rufus shot him once (possibly on purpose—there was still a lot of wondering and debate about that one), but nothing felt quite like this. It was kind of like losing Karen again, but somehow it was a little worse. With her, he knew nothing. The hell bitch jumped her bones and hurled her to her death at the hands of a hunter just trying to put her out of her misery.

Dean was another story. He wasn't an innocent who crossed paths with the big bad. He was a hunter himself, a damn good one, with a huge and deadly flaw: He cared too damn much.

Hunters were known for loving the chase and the kill; they were known for loving their weapons and saying they loved the smell of burned corpses after a job well done. They loved the lying and subterfuge that helped them fly under the radar of the local po-po, and they loved their cars (beat up and rusty or sleek, classic and shiny; either choice, the adoration was eternal). They also loved whoever it was that they lost which dragged them into the deadly game. That was it for hunters. No room in their scarred and hardened hearts for anything more. Just skill, tools, satisfaction, secrets and sorrows.

Except Dean.

No, he cared too damn much. He loved his dead relatives (his mother and father); he loved his unofficial uncles (the hunters John allowed meet his kids as they were springing up like weeds); he loved his surrogate father, Bobby himself; and by all things holy and damned, he loved his little brother so much that he threw his life away when he sold his soul to save the kid.

The persona of the bad-assed, reckless warrior and hunter, with the cock-sure smart mouth and a penchant for pretty waitresses, collided devastatingly with the truth of his character: protective and doting big brother. His heart was just too big for a life with too few reasons to care like that, and it certainly didn't fit in the life of a hunter.

People often remarked to Bobby how of John Winchester's two boys, Sam was the one who wouldn't cut it in the hunting life. They all thought Sam was the liability. To them he seemed too soft, too vulnerable and too distracted. He was meant for something else than the craft. Dean, they would say, was a natural. He was fearless and creative. He was dedicated and devoted to the unofficial creed: Do whatever it takes to kill the evil SOB's before they kill an innocent.

They were wrong about both boys, in Bobby's opinion. Sam wasn't no pansy or helpless geek by any stretch of the imagination; and yeah, Dean was a lot of what they saw, but that wasn't all he was.

Sure, Sam was more academic. He was aloof and questioned things when he was engaged in a hunt. Those didn't make him less capable or less dedicated; it just made him rebellious. Sam liked to do things his way and (more than once) his way was the better way. Bobby knew people didn't like when others succeeded more easily than they themselves did. It pissed them off; Sam pissed people off (hunters especially). Doing the math for the reasons wasn't hard. No, those things that people disliked about Sam certainly weren't weaknesses. No, those were his strengths. Sam didn't follow orders blindly. He considered his moves and plotted his actions accordingly. He didn't accept the mantra "because it's always this way" until he was convinced that was the right way. It was kind of ironic how the one hunter with the most patience for that was his brother, the one man who should have been the biggest foil for him. That right there was all the proof anyone should have needed that Sam was a damn fine hunter and well up to the job. Those things that made him different served him well and made Sam the kind of hunter more hunters should trust.

Not that many would.

Sam was a research junkie and could articulate himself better than most hunters, which made him stand out in a way that gave others an inferiority complex. He never tried to be a show off or to one up anyone. He just liked knowing what he needed to know, and he wasn't afraid if it rattled some cages or some toes got stepped on in the process.

He was perfect material for a hunter—when his mind was in it. Sam just didn't like being told what to do. That was his biggest issue. He was headstrong and while not one to generally fly off the handle without some provocation, he did have a temper and could get a little self-righteous. Unlike most of the hunters Bobby knew, Sam was raised in the life. He learned about the nasty, toothy things that went chomp in the night on a lonely, dark Christmas Eve around age nine. It gave the kid a different perspective, he supposed, that came off as a chip on his shoulder to those who weren't paying attention.

No, Sam was a good fit for hunting. He was a role model for a new generation of hunter that was tech savvy and could more easily blend in with the civilians when needed. He was college-educated and well-mannered. It made him a lethal combination on the side of the good. Hunting was something he certainly was cut out for.

It was Dean who was a bad fit.

People would think Bobby insane for that thought. Dean, they would cry, was a natural, the hunter's own version of an Alpha. He had a ruthless and dogged streak in him. He was fearless and skilled with various weapons. He was deadly with a knife and machete and a crack shot with both gun and bow. He could also make the hard decisions and follow through. He was the kind of guy other hunters understood and wanted watching their backs because he was fearless. He could talk like them and stalk like them. He could hustle pool and cards and women; he could converse about cars and evil critters with equal gusto. He was a good soldier, disciplined, well-trained and determined.

Of course, folks who thought that summed him up didn't know Dean at all. They knew the role he played, the image he let them see. And Bobby knew it was 10 pounds of shit in a five pound bag.

Yeah, Dean was each of those things, but those were just the surface; those were the armor he wore so he could hide and pass among them like he belonged.

What Dean was, first and foremost, was a brother, a loving and devoted brother who identified himself primarily in terms as they pertained to his dear and beloved younger sibling. Where other hunters only loved their trade and the details filling their journals, Dean loved something else so much more: Sam. Or, in the parlance of his larger than life heart: Sammy.

If the need for hunters disappeared one day, most in the trade would be lost for what to do with themselves. They'd wander aimless across the country-side bemoaning their lack of purpose and searching for some way to ply their skills once more. They'd become a ragtag band of mercenaries in search of something to kill, like a pack of Hell's Angels who couldn't find a hog to ride or a fight to pick.

Not Dean, though, Bobby was certain. Dean would have fallen to his knees and thanked whatever power of the universe made hunters obsolete because it would mean that he didn't have to worry about some big and awful f'ugly hurting his precious Sammy. The real reason he remained in the life was to look out for his kid brother, and now, that love had cost Dean his life.

Bobby didn't hold Sam responsible. It wasn't Sam's fault his idgit of a brother made that horrible deal. It was Dean's choice—if you could call being raised with a pathological need to save his brother at all costs a choice. Still, no one could argue that Dean hadn't consciously and purposefully summoned that demon. His death was in his own hands. Not that Sam felt that way. He felt guilty and nothing could alleviate that pain. Losing his brother was like having his own heart ripped out.

Bobby shuddered as he recalled the scene that assaulted is eyes just hours earlier: walking into that house to see Sam cradling his very bloody and very dead brother. He wasn't sure he could make Sam release Dean's body. Sam gripped him tight, sobbing and rocking back and forth with vengeance burning his eyes worse than the tears. It took five times of Bobby telling Sam to let go before he realized the kid couldn't. The Winchester boys didn't know how to let go—not of each other anyway. Finally, Bobby shifted his tone and changed his words: Let me take care of him, Sam. Then, as if like magic, he let Bobby pull the body away and wrap it up in a sheet so they could disappear before they lost the cloak of darkness.

It was a terrible and predictable end to the longest year Bobby could recall—a year that, despite the arduous hunts and foreboding forecast of evil yet to come, seemed to be over too quickly. Bobby, like Sam, had spent the previous year trying to slow down time as they looked for a way to break the raw and lopsided crossroads deal.

In the end, they failed.

It didn't seem real that he'd wrapped Dean's body in that sheet, his chest torn to ribbons and life all oozed out of him, just twelve hours ago. Part of Bobby's brain, the part that kept replaying the horrible sight of his boy torn to shreds on the floor, refused to believe it was real. Considering the truck load of crazy he saw in his life, that was saying something.

The aging hunter ran a shaking hand over his face and whipped off his grimy trucker's cap. In fury and futility he flung it onto the desk, where it bounced and skidded softly, almost comically to the floor then rolled under the couch without a sound. He cursed quietly under his breath at the unfulfilling results of his pathetic tantrum then knelt down to snatch it off the floor. His knees protested the action. He grimaced as the twinge shot through him, a physical pain that was still no match for the unrelenting ache in his heart. He eased himself wearily on the couch and stared at the worn and scarred surface of the rolled arm. He rubbed his hand over it wistfully. There had once been a fine, velvety cloth upholstery there, but was worn thin and shiny now by too many hands running over the surface and too many heads using it as a pillow. The memory of one such melon perched there gripped his throat.

# # # #

_September 8, 1984_

"He's kind of scrawny," Bobby noted to Pastor Jim Murphy as he stood on his sagging porch watching a child struggle out of the sleek black car while carrying a duffle bag that was nearly as big as he was.

It was a humid day threatening thunderstorms as tree frogs were whistling up an opera. The thick and moist air clung to everything like melting butter. Bobby rubbed his neck with a rueful shake of his head and looked down at the motley band that had just pulled up to his house.

"Don't tell him that," the part-time preacher, part-time hunter chuckled. "That's Dean, the oldest. His younger brother is Sammy."

No sooner had the words been spoken than the little boy flopped the bag carelessly on the ground and scrambled back into the car. A moment later, he hauled out a package he treated more gingerly. His younger brother, just over a year-old, was held around the waist then placed on his feet steadying him. The older boy took him gently by the hand and kept him from falling as he toddled toward the steps grinning excitedly. His caretaker wasn't so eager. He looked at the house and the man standing in front of it warily.

"I'll take him up the stairs," Murphy offered and snagged the little one. "Grab your bag and bring it inside, Dean."

The boy simply nodded, casting a quick glance at the stranger in beside the pastor. He returned to the duffel and slung it over his shoulder, nearly toppling over but leaning forward with all his might to keep balanced.

"Need some help with that, sport?" Bobby asked.

"No, I got it," he mumbled, keeping his eyes on his shoes has he hiked up the stairs.

"Dean?" John Winchester called, breaking from his intense discussion with fellow hunter Caleb. "Is that the proper way to address an adult?"

The child turned and looked at his father with a pale and scared face. He shook his head then took a shaky breath as he looked up at Bobby.

"No, I got it, _sir_," Dean said.

"No need to salute me, kid," the gnarled homeowner replied with a nod. "Just Bobby's fine."

"Uncle Bobby," Murphy said lightly and clapped Bobby on the arm while offering a tight grin. "This is Dean."

Bobby nodded and rolled his eyes as Murphy then carried the chubby-cheeked and drooling one into the house. The mobile child, sporting messy locks of dirty blond hair and a spattering of freckles over his pale face, gave him a sad and suspicious look, as if he knew Bobby's lack of comfort with his new boarders.

"Pleasure," Bobby said flatly.

"If you say so," the boy shrugged and continued past him as Murphy held open the door to the house.

"Bobby," John called from the side of the car, "thanks again. Jim can explain everything. I've talked to Dean. He knows what to do. I won't be gone long. Dean, listen to Pastor Jim and Bobby and look after your brother."

The child nodded mechanically and fought to keep the sadness out of his expressive green eyes. Bobby looked down at the kid and felt an unexpected pang of pity him. He looked at John and gave him some reassurance that the little boy didn't need to play babysitter.

"Take your time," Bobby called to his fellow hunter. "I'm covering Allard's ass on the phone seeing as he got himself thrown in the clink last night in Chickasaw. Can't leave until he's got them convinced he's not a flight risk. You and Caleb cut this SOB to pieces then head back. Oh, and bring back a buck of extra crispy with you when you do."

John nodded and headed to Caleb's '79 leprous Chevy pickup with his own bag slung over his shoulder, toting it with greater ease than his little boy had done just moments earlier. Bobby watched John go and shook his head. He'd hunted with John Winchester a few times within the last year and thought he was a solid man on the job but occasionally a bastard as a person. It was like that with a lot of new hunters—especially those with military training. They fell back on what their drill sergeants screamed at them and expected the rest of the world to follow suit. Bobby had known the man had family, young kids in fact, but he had always been told by Murphy that John was devoted to them. Now, he was dumping his two little ones with a stranger (at least to them) and leaving without so much as a goodbye. Funny thing was, the older boy, didn't act like it was strange. That, Bobby thought shaking his head, was a bucket of sad.

Throughout the afternoon, the two boys sat on the floor of the library. The younger one pawed and clawed over his brother like a puppy playing with its favorite toy. The older boy allowed himself to be tackled and chewed; he didn't do much more than yelp in surprise when he got head-butted by his baby brother resulting in his lip splitting open. He simply pushed the younger one back, blinked back tears in his smarting eyes and sucked his bottom lip for a moment until the worst of the bleeding stopped. Bobby stared anxiously, waiting for the wailing and tears and crying for someone to kiss it and make it better like little snot-nosed kids were supposed to do, but it never came. Bobby looked at Murphy, who was casually watching as well while he read through one of Bobby's older texts. The preacher merely shrugged as if to say 'they do this all the time.'

An hour or so later, Bobby had lost all interest in research and was spending most of his time watching the two boys like some exotic exhibit at a zoo. The baby began rubbing his eyes and fussing. With a frustrated but bored sigh, his brother muckled onto him, pulling his baby brother into his lap and held him for several minutes, simply rubbing his back and softly saying 'it's okay, Sammy.' Bobby again looked to Murphy who simply murmured 'it's fine.' Not long after, the baby's whimpering stopped. The older boy then stood up and hefted/dragged his brother to the couch. He boosted the baby into the corner and pulled a dingy blanket out of the duffle he had carried into the house, which he then draped it over his brother's sleeping form.

"I told you, most of the hard stuff is done for you," Murphy grinned and got up from his chair. "Something tells me you don't have any milk in your fridge, Bobby. I'll run to the store. Dean, will you be okay here if I go?"

The child nodded, but slid his eyes warily to Bobby. He then took a tentative step to put himself between his brother and the stranger.

"Don't take this personally," Murphy explained to Bobby in mild tones. "Dean's always protective of his brother. Oh, and don't read anything into the fact he will probably glare at you like that and probably won't speak to you. He takes his time trusting people. In fact, he was with me for three weeks the first time before he ever spoke to me."

"Probably just good sense on his part," Bobby remarked. "I wish I had been as reluctant to know you."

Murphy flashed a smile at his friend and clapped him on the shoulder jovially, whispering their shared joke of 'bless you, child,' then turned to the surly boy guarding his sleeping brother. Murphy knelt down as he addressed the boy. He placed his slender palm on Dean's shoulder as spoke reassuringly to him.

"Dean, Bobby won't hurt Sam or you," Murphy assured him. "Your father wouldn't have left you here if it wasn't safe and neither would I. I will be back in a little while."

Dean nodded again but did not shift from his place. Murphy chuckled and walked out of the house. The crunch of his tires on the gravel outside signaled his departure a few minutes later. Dean remained standing in place, blocking his sleeping brother from Bobby's view. Bobby shook his head and sighed then returned to his reading.

It was unnerving, being stared at like that. He'd looked into the eyes of creatures stronger and more deadly than a five-year-old, but there was something about his stillness and the intensity of his mossy green gaze that niggled at Bobby. It broke his concentration and prevented him from finishing his translation of the archaic text, which he needed to complete to save Allard's worthless ass (if he ever got his trespassing issue squared away with the cops in Alabama). He found himself staring back at the kid for several long minutes, his eyes feeling dry and on the verge of popping out when he lost his patience.

"You can go play on the porch if you like," Bobby said, looking hard into the eyes peering across the edge of the desk at him.

He didn't expect an answer from what Murphy had said about the kid's quiet nature so when he did respond, Bobby was intrigued.

"Sammy's sleeping," Dean replied, his own eyes looking drowsy. "I gotta watch him."

"He's right there, and technically it ain't watching him if your back is to him," Bobby pointed, wondering if maybe the boy was slow and Murphy was being kind in not putting it in those words. Worried the kid might be, Bobby softening his tone a bit. "Look, he's sleeping. That means he ain't going anywhere. Besides, I'm here."

"I know," the brother nodded. "I gotta watch him. In case something happens. It's my job to take care of Sammy."

"You ain't old enough to wipe your own nose," Bobby observed. "Now, get whatever toy you've got in that bag out and go play on the porch. Kids who stay inside on nice days… grow rot in their ears and never learn to tie their shoes."

The child swallowed and turned his back as he reached into the bag. He pulled a dirty looking stuffed toy out (might have been a cat or a octopus; damn thing was so mangled, whether it had limbs or tentacles wasn't clear) and tucked it under his sleeping brother's arm. It was the gentle way that he did it which struck Bobby. In his estimation, five-year-olds weren't tender or gentle creatures. Bobby stared at the boy, who then tugged the blanket covering his brother a little higher, placing the little one's small arms under the covering. Dean then took up a sentry post on the opposite end of the couch, wedging himself into the corner and hugging his knees as he leaned his head against the arm of the couch.

Bobby gave him a questioning look that just asked: What are you doing?

"I can wipe my nose myself," Dean replied in a slightly surly tone. "Ears don't rot just from being inside, and I already know how to tie my shoes."

"So you're just gonna sit there?" Bobby asked. "Not even gonna play with a toy?"

"Toys are for babies," Dean replied. "Sammy's the baby."

The frankness of his tone caught Bobby off-guard. The kid wasn't slow. He was wary. He didn't know Bobby, and he was sticking close to his little brother. Bobby nodded. He could respect that.

"Your Daddy left you here because he knows I'm gonna watch you," Bobby said. "Nothing you can do sitting there watching your brother sleep. If he needs anything, I'll take care of it."

"I watch Sammy," the boy said firmly. "I carried him out of the fire. I take care of him. It's my job."

Dean turned his eyes determinedly away from Bobby and fixed his gaze on his sleeping brother. He remained at his guard post for another 30 minutes, not moving, until Bobby watched the boy's shoulders droop and his head loll backward, his jaw hanging slack. His arms were no longer wrapped tightly around his knees, but he was in a half-fetal position with his head resting on the arm of the couch and appeared to shiver. Sighing, Bobby passed into the kitchen and retrieved his field coat. He checked to pockets and disarmed it of sharp and explosive goodies before returning to the library.

Bobby never wanted kids. In fact, that was the topic of the final talk (well, screaming fight) with his wife before she got possessed and had to be put down. Karen wanted rugrats. He didn't. His own father was a horrible man, as bad as any evil SOB Bobby ever turned to charcoal, and the last thing the world needed was another father like that. He always knew he'd be a terrible parent and never spent time around kids as a result. Now, here he was, saddled with afternoon naptime for a drooling, diaper-wearing larval human and his distrustful Kindergarten bodyguard of a brother.

Still, this recent exposure didn't feel too dangerous.

The little one wasn't any trouble. He sat; he babbled; he mauled his brother; he slept. So far, he didn't smell and wasn't leaving a puddle on the couch so that was a bonus, too. It was the older one that concerned Bobby. He admired the pluck on the older kid, sticking his toes in and shielding his brother despite (or perhaps because of) his own gut telling him to be wary. Murphy said Dean was five, going to be six a few weeks after Christmas, but the look in his eye wasn't that of a child. It certainly didn't belong on any kid who wasn't old enough to take his driver's test. It was a mixture of distrust and isolation that he more often saw in hunters or the victims who survived the crap hunters had to put down for them. The boy had seen things, heard things, knew things—the kind of things no child should.

Bobby looked down as he held his coat over the kid and saw tears matted in the thick eyelashes. A more careful inspection revealed a stream of saline cascading from the outside corners of his eyes toward his ears and getting lost in his hair. Somehow, right in front of Bobby as he read, the little critter had silently cried himself to sleep. That raised an unexpected lump in the crusty hunter's throat. He shook his head and lightly draped his coat over the thin, pale, bare arms and curled up legs of the boy.

He didn't know what prompted him to do it, but he then gently pet the boy on the head.

"You're gonna be fine, son," Bobby said softly. "You and your brother are safe here, Dean."

# # # #


	2. JUST A LITTLE BLOOD

Title: ABOUT A BOY

Chapter Two—JUST A LITTLE BLOOD

# # # #

The sun rudely began its lazy slide to the far side of the sky, flipping off those who thought it more proper that it just go dark for the day. It hung there all bright and belligerent as if to say: I don't give a flying fuck that you lost someone so suck it up and deal. Bobby sat at his desk, staring at the whisky bottle on the corner, scowling at the brightness outside. He'd poured himself a healthy shot when he first arrived home around 10 that morning, hoping to dim his lights a bit. He'd poured another soon after, but found that it was sitting in his hand still untouched and hour later—not for a lack of need for the burning and numbing power of the rotgut liquid, but for lack of energy and focus to lift the glass.

Sam had come back with him. Bobby hadn't given him a choice by claiming the keys to the Impala right after the grave was filled in. Sam simply took his seat in the front like he always did. The kid was on autopilot, his grief paralyzing him from any independent thought as the first waves of shock reverberated through his body. The ride from the Indiana suburbs to the gravesite in Illinois with Dean's body wrapped in a sheet and lying across the backseat was a haunting memory; Sam had kept stealing glances in the rearview mirror later as he and Bobby navigated back to Sioux Falls in silence. Sam looked as lost and shattered as Bobby felt. Life had stopped for Dean just after midnight. Whether it would ever start again for Sam was an unanswered question.

Once they arrived at the salvage yard, Bobby checked his messages. He learned that his own car was on its way back to South Dakota courtesy of a friend and fellow hunter, Olivia Lowry. He had called her just after putting Dean's body in the Impala. She didn't offer her sympathy, knowing no words would be sufficient, and simply promised to get his car back to Sioux Falls later that day. As he got an update on her retrieval, Bobby watched with a heavy heart as Sam took a bottle from the cabinet near the fireplace and simply walked upstairs. This was a first for the Winchester's. After 25 years of coming to Singer's Salvage, one of them was finally going to sleep in a bedroom rather than both of them crashing in the library. That thought again occurred to Bobby as he heard the heavy footfalls on his stairs.

Sam walked wearily and bleary-eyed into the library a few hours later, looking dazed (or maybe just drunk from his self-medicating). From the uneasy look in his eyes, Bobby knew Sam was stuck in his head, trying to formulate a plan. He was stuck in the bargaining phase.

Dean spent a fair amount of time begging Bobby during the previous year to do whatever he could to make sure Sam made it through this part. Bobby understood the worry. Sam could get lost in his own head sometimes, but he felt certain the younger Winchester, the now sole-surviving Winchester, would make it through this part. It was the anger stage that worried Bobby more. God only knew the fury and danger Sam's of pent of rage.

"Something on your mind?" Bobby asked.

"I've been thinking," Sam began slowly and pinched the bridge of his nose as fat tears dribbled out of his red and puffy eyes. "Is there a way to get a demon to reveal the terms of a contract?"

"The terms?" Bobby shook his head. "You want to read the contract? Why?"

"What if there was a loophole?" he began, his speech slurring as he fell into his safety zone of rules and academics; his career as a pre-law student surfaced. "It's buyer beware, right? They bought his soul, but if there was something in the contract that was off… I mean it's not like they would tell us out of fairness. We'd have to figure it out ourselves. So, can we make someone give us the terms of the contract? Maybe there's a way to interpret some part of it to…"

"He's gone," Bobby said painfully but firmly. "You have to accept it 'cause you can't change it. Nothing I know can bring back the dead—at least, not the way you want him back. No misplaced comma or verb tense in a contract is going to free your brother. Dean's gone. For good."

"No," Sam shook his head vehemently as his powerful shoulders hunched and his voice got low and growly. "Not for good. No part of this is good. Dean's in Hell, Bobby. His soul is in Hell being tortured because of me. That's not for the good of anything, and it isn't going to be forever. I will find a way to get him back! Do you hear me? Dean's not there forever! I'm getting him back!"

The giant then stormed out of the room and out of the house. Bobby heard him shout angrily at the sky or the ground maybe, renewing his vow to overturn the most powerful source of evil in the known universe and spring his brother from an unbreakable jail. When it finally grew quiet again, Bobby walked to the window to see Sam sitting in the passenger seat of the Impala, as if waiting for his brother to leave the house so they could take off for a hunt. The only thing that told the tale for the day (and for every day that could possibly follow) was the dejected and sorrow-filled expression on his face as the driver simply did not appear. Bobby checked his pocket and found the car's keys there. Sam wasn't going anywhere.

Resigned to the world not actually ending, whether he wanted it to or not, Bobby tossed back his shot glass and replaced it on the desk. He'd be back for it and some friends to join it later. Right now, he needed coffee so he was at least awake enough to make sure he poured the liquid in the glass later. No reason to spill even cheap whisky; the day was depressing enough as it was. So, he started the coffee maker.

Again, that damn gut twisting pang hit. The mug. That stupid, dirty mug, left on the edge of the draining board with a ring of liquid tar near the bottom. Bobby lifted it and placed it back on its stain ring where it had been sitting for a few days.

He felt stupid preserving it. It was a dirty dish, something that needed washing. Considering the stain in the cup, even acid might never get it clean. Throwing it out made just as much sense, but he couldn't. Not yet. He'd put the man who used that mug in the ground a few hours earlier. His body was six feet under, some 600 miles and 8 hours away, but his damn dirty mug could remain on the edge of the sink for now. Bobby couldn't take the thought of washing away the last traces of him in the house.

He leaned heavily on the sink and felt the tightness in his chest. Part of him hoped it was a heart attack. For a hunter, a deadly cardiac event at home over the sink was a gift. It beat dying torn up and bloody on the job. Bobby shivered at the thought; that was precisely how Dean died. Shredded by a hellhound, his heart and lungs torn out and the rest of his insides slash and punctured, all of it in front of his younger brother. That was why Bobby knew he couldn't wish the heart attack on himself. Dean was gone, but Sam remained. He was the most important thing to Dean in the world and (being pretty damn fond of the kid himself) Bobby wasn't leaving Sam to fend off his grief alone.

The slow drizzle of coffee started filling the pot. The aroma strong and pungent the way he and Dean preferred. Sighing, he reached in the refrigerator and pulled out the French Vanilla creamer—the one Dean always teased Sam about needing—and placed it on the counter. He'd call the kid in soon to have some. It wasn't much and certainly wasn't going to make him feel better, but the sooner he started a new routine, the sooner he could get on with whatever life was supposed to be now that he was the last of the Winchester clan. Bobby was about to go to the door and shout for Sam when the phone rang. It sounded cold and harsh in the still house. He lifted the line, the one to his actual house rather than his multiple faux offices, and answered it with a thick voice.

"Yeah," he said slowly into the mouthpiece.

"Olivia called me," Rufus Turner said without preamble. "Something about you losing your car."

"She's fetching it back to me, that's all," Bobby said. "You need something, Rufus?"

"That's what I'm asking you," he replied. "I got Ellen Harvelle calling me, asking if I've spoken to you. Said you ain't answering your phone. How come I call one of your lines and you answer right off, but she calls and you ignore your cellphone? You suddenly sweet on me?"

"Go suck on a tailpipe, Rufus," Bobby growled. "Now ain't a good time."

"So it was time," Rufus surmised. "Your boy?"

"Yeah," Bobby said tightly, feeling the pain and strain on his throat like someone was crushing his windpipe from the inside. "Gone."

Rufus sighed and paused for a moment.

"Bob, I'm sorry," he said, genuine sympathy resonating in his deep voice. "Last night?"

Bobby nodded and wiped his misty eyes before he realized Rufus couldn't see him, and therefore didn't get his response.

"Yeah," he said quickly, grinding his calloused hand into his eyes.

"I truly am sorry, but you had to know this was coming," Rufus said.

Bobby gnashed his teeth but didn't say anything; Rufus was right—again. It didn't mean he had to like it. Bobby had known for a year this day was coming and everything in him said it couldn't be avoided, yet he held on to the foolish hope that maybe, just this once, there'd be a happy ending, a miracle to fall from the sky and save a hunter. They were the miracles for so many others; why couldn't the godforsaken universe, once, just once, give one of them a fair shake? When Bobby didn't answer, Rufus guessed and replied to his unspoken rant.

"Life just ain't fair, Bobby," Rufus said. "We all signed up for this life, and we all know how it can end. Look, I didn't know him well, but Dean seemed alright to me, for a pretty boy hunter anyway."

Pretty boy hunter. Yeah, that was about right. The hunting world was certainly less handsome now. Bobby chuckled painfully.

"Seems Ellen didn't exactly know about the deal until…," Rufus continued.

"Until you told her?!" Bobby shouted. "Since when are you a gossip girl?"

"Hey, I hear things and I hear things," Rufus explained brusquely. "Ellen heard a thing or two as well and called me for confirmation since she couldn't find you for the last week. She was suspicious when them boys of yours didn't hop on that demon dance party in Terre Haute. R.C. Adams and Jefferson crashed that shindig by the way. They apparently heard from some of those black-eyed bastards that your boys were in the area and why. RC then told Ellen. So she started digging around some more. Bobby, I just confirmed what she already seemed to know."

Bobby growled and let his anger ebb. There was no point in getting mad at Rufus. He had planned on calling Ellen if Sam wasn't up to it. She could explain it to Jo; it always seemed to Bobby from the things he heard that Ellen's girl had a bit of a smolder thing for Dean. Best that someone who knew her well broke the news, he figured.

"Your boy go down fighting?" Rufus asked. It wasn't much to stem the pain, but it was better than nothing.

"Yeah," Bobby said with a remorseful grin. "Helped me and Sam save a family from the hell bitch that had his contract."

"How is the brother?" Rufus asked. "They were close, right?"

"Siamese close," Bobby nodded. "Sam, he's… upright and breathing. Beyond that, I don't know. Destroyed comes to mind."

"And you?" Rufus asked. "I know what that boy meant to you."

"I'll be fine," Bobby said mechanically.

"No you won't," Rufus observed. "You'll just keep going. What's done is done, Bobby. You know the drill: Bury the dead and move on; that's the punishment we get for loving them and still living after they're gone."

"You're a ray of fucking sunshine," Bobby replied. "Thanks."

# # # #

Sam stared at the dashboard then scraped at a smudge that flaked off onto his nail. Dried blood. Dean's blood. The realization caught in his chest and twisted viciously. He felt the tears pour again from his eyes, like a full bucket overflowing its edges. There were gallons more still to come, he was sure.

His eyes flicked automatically to the rearview mirror. There, on the back seat, was another, larger smear. Dean would be appalled. The first thing he took care of after every hunt (other than Sam)—and sometimes even before taking care of himself—was cleaning up his baby. The Impala had seen her fair share of blood over the years. Some of it human, some of it not. There had been trickles and spatters and (on bad days) gushes. The first time Sam recalled seeing blood in the car, it was his own.

**# # # #**

_November 1989_

_Jerome, Idaho_

It was a blustery day as the boys sat side by side in the back seat of the Impala where it was parking just side a gas station and Qwikmart. Sam was six at the time, having just started first grade a few months earlier. He was so very impressed that he could read and so many of his classmates couldn't. He sat in the back of the car with one of his books keeping him company as Dean was ignoring him. His big brother, too, had a book, but he didn't enjoy his book much—not if the look on his face was any indication. They were supposed to sit quietly in the car while Dad ran into the store at the truck stop to get them something to eat for the road as they left town for yet another of his "business trips."

"What's your book about?" Sam asked Dean, noticing the scrunch to his eyes.

Dean always looked so focused when he was reading the books Dad gave him. He looked at them much harder than he ever looked at any of his school books. He was also more protective of them. He let Sam draw on his math book and his English book without a word, but if Sam got near any of the books Dad gave Dean to read, there was a lot of yelling and sometimes the occasional shove. Dean didn't shove very hard, Sam noticed, which was odd because he was much bigger than Sam. He only pushed enough to move Sam away so he couldn't see the pages. Then he would store the book some place high Sam couldn't get to or he'd sit on it so it was equally out of reach as Sam couldn't topple him over, even when he charged and Dean and dove straight into him. That was actually a pretty fun game because Dean could flip Sam clean over his head and they would end up wrestling, with Dean showing him how to break out of holds (although Sam was starting to suspect he only struggled free of Dean's grasp when his brother allowed it).

Still, even more than how to flip someone over and pin them to the ground, Sam wanted to know what Dean was reading. He gazed at his brother, his eyes demanding an answer to his question.

"Well, what is it a story about?" Sam asked impatiently, sliding across the huge expanse of the back seat and trying to crawl into Dean's lap. "Come on. Tell me."

"It's about a little boy who didn't shut up and asked too many questions so his teeth and tongue fell out one day," Dean said without looking up as he stiff armed Sam backward.

Undaunted, Sam crawled back.

"No, it's not, Dean," he shook his head. "Daddy told you to find him a prescription of something."

"Description and stop listening when Dad talks to me," Dean grumbled, dragging his finger down the page as his eyes raced side to side looking for whatever their father asked him to find. "Now, leave me alone, Sammy. I have to finish this before Dad comes back."

"Because he'll be mad if you don't?" Sam wondered.

Their father never seemed to yell at Dean. He spoke to him, told him what to do and then Dean just did it. Dean never did what Sam did: He never asked why. Sam thought that meant Dean must have asked all the whys a long time ago because he never asked any. For that reason, Sam started to really listen when their father spoke to his older brother. He wanted to know everything Dean knew.

"Well," Sam demanded. "Is it because you'll get in trouble or not?"

"No, it's because I don't like reading when the car is moving," Dean said through gritted teeth.

"'Cause it makes you puke?" Sam wondered.

Dean got green sometimes reading for Dad in the car. Sam had watched him jump out as soon as the car slowed down in parking lots to either throw up just outside or to gulp deep breaths of air. Their father would speak to him in the same tone as he always did, firmly, telling him to hang in there and not to worry that he'd outgrow it someday. Sam didn't like being sick himself, but whenever he was, Dean was nicer to him about it. Dean spoke to Sam in a softer voice, patting Sam on the back and telling him he was going to be okay. Dean would even stay home from school with Sam when Sam was sick. Dad never did that for Dean nor for Sam. He sighed as he watched Dean staring hard at the book, looking for whatever their father wanted him to find before they started driving again, making Dean feel sick. Sam had hoped the 'someday' Dad spoke about for Dean would show up quickly. Dean wasn't any fun with he didn't feel well.

"Are you going to throw up now?" Sam wondered.

"Yes, because you keep asking stupid questions," his older brother snapped and shot him a mean stare. "Now, shut up and leave me alone. Read your baby book over there."

"It's not a baby book; it has 23 pages," Sam said brightly, holding it up for Dean to admire. When Dean didn't look, Sam waved it. "I said my book has 23 pages!"

"Twenty-five," Dean corrected him. "Twenty-three of them have the story, but there are 25 actual pages, Sam. Why don't you practice counting them—quietly?"

Sam looked curiously at Dean then at his book as if it had lied to him. He flipped it open and did count the pages as Dean instructed. He was right. There were two extra pages in the beginning with the title and words about the book being written for someone named Nancy. Sam wondered how Dean knew this then recalled that, when he got the book as a gift from his teacher because he was leaving town, he sat on his bed in the motel that night crying because he didn't want to leave. Dean sat on his bed with him and had Sam read him the book so he wouldn't think about leaving in the morning. Sam nodded. Dean must have counted all the pages then. He always seemed to notice and remember the little things around Sam. Sam smiled; knowing Dean paid close attention to him usually made him feel special because he had noticed that Dean wasn't like other big brothers. Other kids Sam met at school didn't like their brothers or sisters much; they didn't play with them, didn't read books with them; didn't learn judo or kenpo karate from them. Sam figured that meant their big brother's weren't as fun or as smart his, and that theirs didn't pay much attention to them. That made Sam special because he knew Dean was special.

"I can read all the pages," Sam announced loudly when it seemed Dean was not listening to him again.

It was only a matter of time before he knew he could get Dean to talk to him and play with him. He just had to keep going. It always worked.

"Yep, I can read all of them and all the words on them all by myself," he crowed.

"Congratulations, you're a genius, Sammy," Dean replied still not looking at him.

"Miss Tanner said I was a better reader than anyone she's ever taught," Sam continued, eager that Dean was responding to him. "Know why?"

"Because all of her other students are idiots," Dean said dully, his brow furrowing as he found something on the page that interested him.

"No, because you and Pastor Jim and Uncle Bobby taught me," Sam beamed. "Now, let me read to you."

Dean scoffed loudly and stripped the thin book from Sam's hands. He clamped it tight under his right arm so he could keep reading in a furious effort to finish the task before their father returned with their lunch, consisting of chips, soda and (if Dean found what their father was looking for) those small pastries that were just about pie. Sam was mostly eager for the soda. Sometimes, Dean would tap his bottle on the top of Sam's, making it almost explode as all the fizz would rush up. Sam would always put his mouth over the top so it didn't spill all over the seats. Dean swore every time that he could see it coming out of Sam's ears. Sam was pretty sure it actually didn't come out of his ears, but he would start laughing so hard that tears would roll down his face and Dean would tell him those weren't tears, it was more soda. Sam grinned, hopeful they would play that game again as they got on the road, but first he wanted to read Dean his story to show him again how good he was at reading his book.

In order to do that, he needed his book back, so, he did precisely what Dean had done to him. He took a swipe at it.

Except, he wasn't as quick or strong as his big brother. The book remained clenched tight under Dean's elbow. Undaunted, Sam clamped his jaws tight with determination then wrapped his slim fingers around the edge of the book. He tugged and tugged, grunting and gasping to extract it. He blew his bangs out of his eyes and caught Dean smirking at him. That made Sam mad. He liked it when he and Dean laughed at the same things or when Dean made him laugh. He didn't like it when Dean was having fun without him, and he certainly seemed to be laughing at Sam.

"Guess you're still a weak, little baby, Sammy," Dean chuckled, which mad Sam more furious.

Determined not to let Dean continue calling him a baby or keeping his book, Sam planted his feet against Dean's leg and gripped the book as tight as he could. He gave a mighty heave and the book slipped free. It flew back at Sam so fast he didn't have time to react. He shot backward across the seat and smacked himself in the face with the book. His eyes stung and his nose hurt, but he was so glad to have the book back that he quickly sat up laughing.

"Sammy!" Dean yelled, throwing Dad's book aside and launching himself across the seat to grab Sam's head.

"Did you see that?" Sam crowed then coughed as something terrible tasting filled his mouth. "Dean, did you see what I did?"

"Yeah, I saw," Dean said, quickly pulling off his outer shirt and holding it to Sam's face then held up his free hand. "How many fingers?"

"On your hand?" Sam asked through the cloth. "You have five, but really, it's only four because your thumb isn't like other fingers; that's why it's a thumb. That's what Pastor Jim told me."

"No," Dean growled. "How many fingers am I holding up now?"

"Oh," Sam blinked. "Three."

"Good," Dean sighed then continued mopping Sam's face.

Sam pulled the cloth away and looked at the large, red, glistening spot now staining Dean's shirt. He blinked hard and felt the tears filling his eyelids. He shook a bit until Dean put his arm around his shoulders and told him he was fine.

"It's all red," Sam said, feeling like his nose was stuffy as if he had a cold.

"It's just a little blood, Sammy," Dean assured him. "You're fine."

**# # # #**

A little blood was no problem that day. The bloody mess in the car the night before was another story. Dean's shirt had again been soaked, only the previous night, it was a great deal more blood. It was all Dean's and he was not fine afterward. Sam felt nauseous at the memory. He was certain, of all the things he had seen in his life, the picture of his brother lying torn to shreds on the floor of that home, the picture of him wrapped pale and motionless in that stolen bed sheet then lain on the back seat of the Impala, and the picture of him in the hastily constructed wooden coffin just before Bobby closed the lid, would be Sam's last thoughts. Those images were burned into his retinas and not even something as complete as Alzheimer's would ever make him forget them.

There had been too much blood in the Impala, and now that was all Sam could see in her.

# # # #


	3. HALLEJUAH, LIFE IS GOOD

Title: ABOUT A BOY

Chapter Three: HALLEJUAH, LIFE IS GOOD

**# # # #**

Rufus disconnected, leaving Bobby with a pot of lethally strong coffee, a dirty mug and a deathly quiet house. He looked toward the back door, the one with the overly strong spring that slammed it shut if you weren't careful when closing it. Bobby looked out to the salvage yard, a virtual graveyard of dead cars. He had considered offering to bury Dean out there in the back, but something told him as they carried his body out of that house that the sooner they laid him to rest, the better it would be for Sam. An eight hour ride back to Sioux Falls with Sam in the back cradling his brother's dead body in his arms was asking for a mountain of trouble later. As it was, it was nearly impossible to get him to let go of Dean and place him in the coffin. Reminding him that what made Dean the Dean they both loved was no longer in that corpse had no effect. It was as if hanging on to the body was his last chance to save his brother. Of course, both knew that was pointless.

They knew precisely where Dean was: where he shouldn't be. Bobby believed in evil and a sort of level of not evil, the one that most people fit into. Good was a hard concept to define, and what wasn't evil wasn't always precisely good. But Dean wasn't evil. Evil was what belonged in Hell, and Dean, deal or not, certainly shouldn't be there. Having him here, buried at the salvage yard, wouldn't helped him any or Bobby either. In fact, not having to face a patch of ground he couldn't even stake with a marker to show his boy was there might make things easier.

His boy.

He shook his head at that. Thoughts like that started a god-awful fight more than once. John was not a great parent; no one on the planet would ever argue otherwise (except maybe Dean when he was in certain moods, but he was gone now so the available jury was in). John certainly loved his sons. He just had too much vengeance in his soul and a desperate need to save his youngest from a fate no one fully realized until it was too late. His children loved him. There was no doubt about that either. One was a challenge to him, the questioning and argumentative youngest. The other was obedient and respectful; Dean worshiped John in many ways, but their's was always a complicated relationship. Bobby noted that nearly from their first meeting and watched it play out in a two-decade long play of heartache that pushed his friend John further away and drew him closer to the child who he thought of as his boy.

# # # #

_July 1989_

The summer of 1989 as a warm one in South Dakota. The heat was hanging over a lot of the country and that brought things out of the shadows. Either that or things were just staying out of the shadows and that's what was keeping things hot all over. Whatever the cause, John was on a hot streak of his own. Hunt after hunt kept him moving constantly between the southwest and northern Texas. Prior to the run, he had been scrounging for jobs and feeling like the trail for the big bad that ruined his nice life in Lawrence had gone impossibly cold. During the down time, he had taken the boys to stay at Bobby's. As summers went, things at the salvage yard were usually pretty busy. With nearly nothing to hunt that summer, Bobby was left to tend to his actual business.

John stayed in Sioux Falls, using the library for all it was worth and helping with some side jobs as a mechanic. The man was a maestro with both a sawed off shotgun and a socket wrench. Bobby was glad to help the guy out. It put a few extra bucks in his pocket and gave the boys a place to land for a while. There was a swimming hole a mile down the road that did its job on hot days. Bobby would run the boys out there in his leprous tow truck in the afternoons when the temperatures climbed into the high 80s. He'd sit on the bumper and watch as Dean taught his brother to swim. Sam was hesitant at first, worried there was something in the water that might grab him and pull him under. Dean rolled his eyes and without warning dove fearlessly headlong into the pond. He stay submerged for several long moments, even Bobby was starting to get a tick of worry in his chest, when the 10-year-old breached the surface grinning. He assured Sam that he had checked the whole bottom and there was nothing down there, except maybe some buried pirate treasure. Sam was sold and headed into the depths with his brother.

A short swimming lesson followed and then the wrestling match began. Bobby laughed and felt a sort of contentment watching the two of them thrash around like a couple of eels. For siblings, they didn't fight much; of course, their games were always physically rough so Bobby suspected that worked out any issues they had. There in the swimming hole, Sam was determined to take his brother down and show him that he wasn't a baby anymore. Dean easily broke all of Sam's holds and flung him out into the deeper water, only to have the boy come back begging for more. Near the end, they even conned Bobby into getting close enough to the edge and tackled him. He landed on his ass in the water then caught a foot or a knee on the head and, playing along with the great game of kill the old bastard who drove us here, did the dead man's float for a few seconds still fully clothed, hoping that his hat's brim would recover from the soaking. He revived himself when he heard Dean paddling frantically to check on him as Sam starting to get a little anxious. He quickly splashed Sam and dunked Dean under the water to show them he could play along, too. The three of them then rode back to the house dripping and laughing about the great game only to meet John standing at the side of their car with bags in hand.

His packing and his face said it all. The boys instantly drooped and exchanged knowing looks. Dean sighed and put his hand on Sam's shoulder and stood with a deflated expression staring at his father. Bobby watched the scene and made a snap decision. He stepped up to John and pulled him aside.

"A minute," Bobby said.

John ordered the boys inside and told Dean to make sure his brother was all packed up, nothing left behind, and ready to travel in five minutes. Bobby opened his mouth to protest but paused as Dean did what was, at that point in time, unthinkable. He uttered a word that Bobby was pretty sure was not normally in his vocabulary any longer.

"Why?" he asked plainly.

Before John could respond with a terse answer or order (followed by a stern statement of consequence), Bobby tugged his fellow hunter to the side and made a counter offer. Leave the boys with him for the time being. They were safe at the salvage yard—had their own private hunter guarding them—they also had a roof over the heads, beds (even if they needed seemed to use them) while John was off stalking and throwing down with the big bad flavor of the month. He even threw in a well-intentioned lie about his bum knee flaring up and sidelining him from active hunting for a few weeks. John considered the offer and, like a Marine used to making quick decisions, he nodded.

"Dean," John said. "Change of plans. You and Sammy are going to stay with Bobby while I go away for work. I want you to behave; do whatever Bobby tells you, and help out where he needs it. Be sure to watch your brother."

Dean did something next that Bobby saw all too rarely outside of the games and frolics with his brother: He smiled. It wasn't a tiny 'oh that's nice' smile. It was a big, wide, dazzling eyes, ear-to-ear, face-splitting, toothy, shit-eating, today-must-be-my-birthday, Hallejuah, life is good kind of grin. A once in a lifetime, things don't get any better than this, light up the room in the pitch darkness of night kind of grin. An oh my god if it gets any better it would be an orgasm kind of grin.

"Can you do that?" John asked, looking at his oldest with a calculating expression.

"Yes, sir," the kid replied beaming.

John saw the elation in his boy's face but said nothing out loud, but Bobby felt the sting from several feet away. The look he gave Bobby, however, said a lot of words—a few of them not pleasant. John then left within 15 minutes. Spending only a moment with both boys, reiterating his orders to behave and not be a nuisance. Sam was happy he didn't have to take off his swim shorts and climb in the hot car. Dean was quiet, nodded thoughtfully at his father's restated commands and gave his father a concerned look that said a million things but mostly: I'll take care of Sam; make it back safely.

The hunt and the weeks dragged on. The boys were able to speak with John on the phone once in a while so he could assure them he was well and would be back as soon as the job was done. Sam wondered frequently what job it was, but was easily distracted by whatever new book Bobby had grabbed for him at the library. Dean tossed furtive looks at Bobby, who would reassure him (once Sam was out of earshot) that John was fine and there were just a lot more monsters to track and kill in the places he was visiting.

As the final weeks of summer slipped away, the boys were enrolled in school and doing fairly well. John left standing orders with Bobby for Dean's training. He needed to practice with the bow and with the rifle every night after school while Sam was at an afterschool program for gifted kids who liked to read. That Bobby caught Dean lingering over his science homework, and flipping to pages deeper in the text about how rockets fly, was not something he mentioned when John called for updates. Bobby also didn't mention how his oldest could get lost in episodes of Star Trek (the old and the new ones) and forget the world existed (as long as Sam remained quiet and didn't call for him) while he watched them. He also got so engrossed in major league baseball playoffs that he nearly didn't make it to dinner a few times (something that at first had Bobby worried the kid was sick).

John did find out about the deviations from his training, though, because Dean told him. The man asked a direct question and his well-trained and subordinate son responded. No, he hadn't trained after school that day. He was watching the game and hoped the Giants didn't win the World Series. Bobby overheard the discussion and snatched the phone away, sending the boy to go look for his brother upstairs. Dean did so dutifully; he was have a great day. Bobby had taken him after school to play catch, and now he owned his very own baseball glove for the first time. It was sitting on the porch, having just been oiled the way Bobby said the pros did it, to break it in.

To say John was furious was like saying the Loma Prieta earthquake caused a little stir in California that year.

"He's still a kid, John," Bobby said in rebuttal.

"He's not your son," John shot back.

His voice was a little slurred; whether it was exhaustion or hunter's helper in a bottle, Bobby didn't know. He figured a combination was most likely. If fighting with John when he was sober was pointless, then fighting with him when he was drunk was like trying to do the backstroke in quick-setting concrete. You got nowhere fast. Still, Bobby had spent too much time with both boys to hold his tongue and shut up when something important was on the line.

"I know he ain't," Bobby replied tersely. "By god, I wish he was. I'd sure treat him a hell of a lot better than he gets. Now, I know you do the best you can, but it ain't right you making him grow up so fast. He's not a soldier or a hunter, John. He's a boy. A little boy. He's a handful sometimes and god knows he needs structure, but you have to give him some moments of being a child. It's for his own good."

"I know what my son needs," John said angrily. "Don't tell me how to raise him."

He slammed the phone down hard rather than hear Bobby's response. Two days later, John was in the driveway when the boys got home from school. They were packed and heading out the door within half an hour. John said he wasn't mad and they would be back to see Bobby again for certain, but he had word of a witch's coven back east. He didn't like leaving his boys in a different time zone from him. Both were glad to see John when he arrived, but neither moved immediately on the double quick when ordered to pack up and bug out. John didn't appreciate the dawdling and barked an order to hurry up. Dean bustled Sam out the door with his bag without a backward glance. Bobby stood alone in the kitchen, feeling the draft of the sudden departure on more than just his skin. He heard car doors slam and couldn't bring himself to watch them drive away in a cloud of dust behind that black monster of a car.

He was hanging his head over the sink, wondering what the hell to do with all the fixings for s'mores he bought that afternoon for their planned camp out in the library that evening now that the World Series was over, when heard the back door creak open again. Bobby turned, thinking the latch must not have taken as the boys rushed out, and was hit square in the middle by a pair or arms that wrapped around him tight and hugged him fiercely.

"Almost forgot to say goodbye," Dean said in a shaky voice as he quickly handed Bobby back his baseball glove.

"No, that's yours to keep, Dean," Bobby shook his head as he leaned down to look him in the eye. "That's a gift from me to you."

"I know," Dean nodded, tears glistening in his eyes but behind held back by sheer force of will. "I don't want it to get lost or left behind if we have to leave somewhere quick, so can you keep it safe for me? Dad says we're coming back at some point. Is it okay if I leave it with you until then?"

Bobby nodded, holding back tears of his own as he squeezed Dean's shoulder then gently cupped and patted his cheek. Next, he made a show of putting the glove in the small cupboard over the refrigerator—the only one in the kitchen that didn't have dishes, food or special items of any kind.

"It'll be right here when you come back," Bobby promised him. "You remember my phone number, right?"

"Uh huh," Dean nodded, "605-555-2325—that's the house number. I know the others, too. In case."

"Good," Bobby said and hugged the boy briefly and ruffled his hair again before walking him to the door as John tooted the horn. "Get going now. Your daddy's waiting."

Dean bounded off the steps and into the car, throwing a sad but hopeful smile back at Bobby. They pulled away with a little less dust than Bobby expected. Both boys waved manically from the rear window until they were out of sight.

**# # # #**

Bobby stood in his kitchen, looking at the back door, knowing the boy and the man he became would never be bounding through it ever again. That thought clenched his heart and wrung it dry. Wearily, he walked toward the refrigerator then opened the cabinet above it. He shifted a stack of manuals and invoices and few cloths with intricate sigils on them until he found the object buried in there. He pulled out a small baseball mitt from the depths. It barely fit his hand, and the leather was aged and cracked. It was also covered with mud and grass stains; it was scraped and sun-bleached having been used for a few years on those rare moments when he could convince Dean it was okay to leave the target practice for just a few more minutes.

A new surge of grief-soaked anger filled the desolate demon hunter as he held the glove in his hand. In a fit of fury, he walked over to the trash. He dropped it in with a whoosh. As the anger surged in his veins further, he also grabbed that damn dirty coffee mug and threw it in as well.

**# # # #**


	4. FINE

Title: ABOUT A BOY

Chapter Four: FINE

**# # # #**

Packing was easy. Folding was a neat and orderly thing to put, well, order to chaos. Sam had always been orderly. Dean was the opposite, yet somehow, he was always packed first and never seemed to lose anything. Sam looked at the duffle sitting at his feet, the one that contained nearly all Dean's personal possessions that were not cassette tapes or weapons. Funny, he though wryly, Dean had more of those than anything else.

Sam sifted through his brother's meager possessions as he sat on the couch in the library. The whisky bottle near his elbow, he and Bobby were currently sharing one, looked like it would need a friend in the future as it was nearly gone. Sam didn't think he could sort through Dean's things if he was sober. The pain was too strong and it felt too much like an invasion. Dean wasn't precisely a private person; how could he be when he didn't exactly live a life of his own? Since taking on hunting full-time, he was always someone else, whoever the job needed. That part appealed to the unrepentant child in him, Sam knew. Sam knew his brother, for all his grumbling and bitching about wearing suits, actually liked that part of the job. It was the grown up equivalent of playing dress up and let's pretend. For Dean, that was like living out scenes from movies—and he loved those nearly as much as he loved pie.

Loved.

Sam shook his head. Not yet 24 hours since Dean left him and already the past tense was slipping into his vocabulary. That thought required a healthy swig from his glass. Bobby was staring into space at his desk, eyes bleary from tears he wouldn't shed in front of Sam, whisky he would imbibe with him and haunting memories from the night before that were keeping him awake, too. The difference between them was not the pain of the loss. Sam didn't doubt Bobby was hurting in agonizing ways because he loved Dean like a son—maybe even a touch more than he loved Sam. Or maybe that wasn't really the best way to put it. Bobby loved them both like sons; he just understood Dean more and felt protective of him because he always felt no one really looked out for Dean. Sam had to agree.

But, unlike Sam, Bobby had given up. He had accepted Dean's loss and was just spiraling in the early stages of grief and despair. Not Sam.

Dean was gone, yes. But it wasn't for good. Sam was getting him back, somehow. That was why he was making sure all of Dean's things would be there when he did return: Their work clothing, those suits he claimed he hated, his preferred faded and torn jeans and T-shirts along with his beloved flannel shirts. His leather and canvas jackets were here, too. Sam had accounted for them and placed them on hangers in the closet. He would inventory the weapons when his head was clearer. What he was looking for right now was something he wasn't certain he would find but had to check for all the same: a journal.

It hit him as he sat in the car not turning on the engine and not listening to music that it was supremely odd that Dean didn't have a journal. He was the best hunter of his generation. He worshipped their father and emulated him at every turn it seemed except that one aspect. It baffled Sam the more he thought about it. Sure, his brother liked to play the dumb card to get his way, to get out of uncomfortable discussions, to get out of work he didn't want to do, but his ignorance was often feigned and was usually very strategic. And that was where the genius of Dean Winchester was revealed.

Dean understood a great deal more than he let on sometimes. He figured out puzzles and patterns with ease when he needed to; he had a near encyclopedic memory of all their hunts (including what diners they ate at, what was good at them and whether the waitress was hot). His memory was astounding, but how did he not write any of it down? Sure, he could claim it felt like homework and he had dropped out of high school to avoid that kind of thing, but Sam didn't buy it. Dean was a hunter, one of astounding skill and technique, and men of that caliber wrote down their accomplishments for reference and to build on. Why had Dean never done so?

"You looking for something?" Bobby asked, gazing wearily at Sam who was scowling at the contents of the now empty duffle bag.

"He never kept a journal," Sam shook his head. "It just struck me as… odd. I never thought about it until now, but why wouldn't do he that? The best hunters do that."

"The best hunters who need that do that," Bobby corrected. "I don't have a journal, not like you're thinking anyway. I've got… all this instead and more notes of my own." He waved generally to the overflowing shelves around him. "Beats the piss out of any journal if you're looking for information. Now, if you're looking to leave proof that you lived and feel the need to convincing some stranger that your life mattered, well, then you keep a journal. Like a long bucket list to prove you were here and did some good in your life once it's all over. Dean didn't need that."

"Because he never thought he mattered," Sam hung his head.

"No," Bobby said, although he knew the statement to be true. "He never did that because he had you. You're his legacy, kid."

Sam swallowed hard and gripped the glass again. Hearing the resignation and sadness in Bobby's voice, he poured himself another shot. He preferred the world a little less sharp on the edges right now. He needed numbing and distance from the pain so he downed his glass quickly.

"That really why you're wondering?" Bobby asked. "You want a chronicle of everything he hunted? Or were you looking for something else?"

"What else would there be?" Sam asked.

"Something left behind for you," Bobby ventured. "A letter or something? _Dear Sam, here's what I always wanted to tell you_."

Sam stared at Bobby and felt, not for the first time, that he might be the one with psychic powers. He knew it wasn't true; Bobby just listened better than their father ever had and understood what the two boys meant to each other. All John understood was the fanatical obsession he planted in Dean's head to protect and save Sam at all costs—the results of which now left Dean prisoner in some sulfur-ridden, fiery torture chamber as a whipping boy for countless hell bitches looking for a good time and to get back a little of their own on the hunter who had made a few of them pay. No, Bobby got it. Dean didn't just throw himself on the crossroads bullet for Sam out of obligation; he did it because he loved his little brother more than his own life. What he forgot to factor into that was something their father never seemed to notice, Sam felt the same way about his big brother. Because, if Bobby was the father Dean never had, Dean was the parent (both mother and father; nurturer and protector) Sam relied upon. The aged hunter understood.

"You won't find one, Sam," Bobby said solemnly. "You know that. Dean said everything he needed to; he told you everything in him. He have any last words for you?"

Only Bobby could ask that and not get Sam up and swinging. Bobby wasn't there in the final moments. He seemed genuinely curious and certain that Dean did offer up some parting words; from his expression, Sam expected once he revealed them that Bobby would not be surprised.

Sam exhaled painfully as he heard the words again and acutely felt the pressure of Dean's phone against his thigh where it rested in Sam's pocket. Sam had called Dean's number a few times that day. Not because he expected him to answer, but because he wanted and need to hear his voice. The voicemail message on it was the only recording of Dean's voice Sam that had. He looked up and spoke softly and slowly.

"He said to, uh, look after the car; to remember what Dad taught me and to remember what he taught me," Sam revealed as tears again breached his lids and spilled over his face.

"That's it then," Bobby said. "You know he loved you. He knew you knew. He was proud of you and scared for you. He didn't want to leave you, but he didn't have a choice. So you gotta do what he said, Sam. You understand?"

Sam nodded. What Dean taught him was, no matter the cost to yourself, you protect what you love. You do what it takes to make sure your family is safe and with you. That's precisely what Sam planned on doing. Bobby watched the firm set of his jaw as it contrast with the devastated and shattered look in his eyes.

"You don't look so good—even… everything considered," Bobby observed.

"I'm… as fine as I can be," Sam said.

"Fine?" Bobby shook his head and growled. "I think your family is genetically incapable of understanding what that word means."

# # # #

_February 1991_

The boys tramped into the kitchen from the whiteout filling the yard. Bobby got the call hours earlier—had been expecting them hours earlier too—about the coming invasion to his home. The Winchester brood would be his second, third and fourth unexpected guests that night. Jim Murphy had called him that morning as well in need of sanctuary from the storm. He was on his way back from work for his official day job—giving a eulogy at a funeral for a friend of his from divinity school. That the man died suspiciously was the real reason the Nebraska preacher ventured a state away during blizzard season. Once he determined there was nothing but bad luck involved in the death, the pastor began his trek back to Blue Earth, Minnesota, but the weather had other ideas. Not one to tempt nature at its nastiest, Murphy called the closest hunter he knew and hightailed it to the salvage yard to bed down until the worst of the storm passed.

As a man who spent much of his time alone, the sudden influx of visitors had Bobby on edge, but he was eager to see the boys. It had been months since he heard from John Winchester. Though he would deny it to anyone who tossed the accusation at him, Bobby had grown unspeakably fond of the two Winchester kids. Having them turning his house upside down with their loud and nonsensical games of tag and cards that seemed to have no firm rules other than that yelling and then tackling was completely acceptable (and there was always tackling and some rudimentary martial arts in any game they played). Dean was well-trained, and Sam was just learning. Bobby didn't want to imagine what damage those two could do as they got more skilled, although he caught himself smiling at the thought.

Murphy called him a hen a few times for the nervous way he kept peeking out the windows as darkness fell and the family was not yet arrived. When they did appear, the harried look on John's face matched Bobby's own. Apparently, the slow crawl of a drive was nearly the end of them. Sam was coughing and sneezing, wiping his nose on the sleeve of his overly large red and black checked wool jacket. His brother glowered at him, holding both of their bags as he stood shivering while wearing simply a pull over sweatshirt that was fraying at the cuffs.

"Drop your gear and get inside," John ordered.

Sam, seven-year-old at the time, was shrugging off his clothes like they were on fire. He looked lost as he swam in the too-large jacket. His hair was a little long and unruly. His smile, nearly always present despite his tendency toward arguing, shone brightly despite the chest and throat ailment he seemed to have. He greeted Bobby warmly and excitedly. In spite of the hacking, Sam was brimming over with chatter about wanting to watch the news to see how big the storm was, which explained a lot about about John's description of the drive as 'bad.'

As Sam prattled on, John sighed resignedly and offered an apologetic look at Bobby. Dean hung his head and shook it wearily. He stood at his father's side, pale and oddly aloof.

"Apparently, I'm raising a meteorologist," John said in a gravelly voice. "Sorry we're late. They closed I-29, and we had to take a few detours around accidents. We've been driving blind for the last three hours and… discussing weather. Look, I've gotta head out now or I'll never catch up."

"You still gonna chance meeting up with Jefferson?" Bobby asked. "In this mess? Jim won't even haul his ass the two and a half hours back to his place in this."

"Might be better if you waited out the storm, John," Murphy cautioned.

"It's four dead within the last week," John insisted quietly, looking up carefully to see that Sam was out of earshot in the library. "We've gotta get this thing before it gets extra hungry. Trust me. I'll be fine. I'll be back for the boys at the end of the week. Sam's coming off an infection and still fighting a cold, but he should be fine if he gets some rest and sleep. He's only got another day of antibiotics to take. Just don't let him play outside, no matter how much he argues. Dean?"

The older boy stepped from behind his father and faced him.

"Keep your brother calm," John said. "He needs his rest so no roughhousing, even if he eggs you on and begs."

Dean nodded, taking the order stoically as always. John nodded to Bobby and Murphy then called a brief goodbye to Sam and departed. Sam was flipping channels, trying to find one that had less snow on the screen than the view from the windows. Bobby took the bag younger boy's bag and started to carry it into the library. He looked back at Dean, who stood in the kitchen, staring at the door where his father had just departed.

"You okay, Dean?" Bobby asked.

The kid nodded slowly still staring at the vacant doorway.

"Car like your dad's is heavy and can hold the road," Bobby said confidently. "He'll be okay. Come over to the fire and warm up."

Dean dragged his bag across the floor then dropped it beside Sam's. He cased the room, Bobby noted, casually looking around to see if there were any changes. There weren't. Bobby gazed back at the boys and could not say the same. Dean had just turned 12 a few weeks earlier and had grown a bit since he saw the boy last. His normally pale skin was pink'ish, almost rosy at the cheeks, making his freckles appear less prominent. His eyes looked tired, and he slouched wearily.

"You okay, Dean?" Bobby asked, giving him a critical look. "Seem a little too quiet."

"I'm fine," he said in a soft raspy voice.

"Dean's got my cold," Sam beamed, jumping up and down excitedly as he found a TV station showing a large weather map with a storm sprawling across several states. "Wowee! Dean, look how big it is!"

Dean looked over his shoulder listlessly then rolled his eyes as he told his brother to sit down and stop bouncing. Sam paused, thinking about the order, but eventually dropped to his seat when Dean put a warning hand on his younger brother's shoulder. Sam then stared, with rapt attention, at the forecast and made comments to Murphy about how fascinating he found the pictures from 'up in the clouds.'

"They're taken from space, not from the clouds," Dean said quietly as he scuffed his way to a corner of the couch.

He tuned out the TV, which Bobby thought odd but let it go because of the dark circles under the boy's eyes. The kid was exhausted. He didn't sleep enough anytime Bobby saw him, but he knew of no way to make him get more rest short of drugging him. Dean sat very still on the couch, ignoring everything for a while. He only looked up when Sam coughed a few times then wiped his nose again on his sleeve. Sighing and shaking his head, Dean tromped back to the kitchen to retrieve a paper towel that he held to his brother's face, making him blow his nose, despite Sam's protesting he didn't need help. Dean then shuffled back to the couch and dropped again into the corner, resting his head on his fist. He remained there through the newscast. Despite Murphy's prodding to straighten up before his back curled into a question mark, Dean kept his slouching posture even through their dried out dinner of overcooked meatloaf. He also only picked at the apple pie (the one Bobby had bought fresh at an actual bakery at the last minute) claiming it didn't taste good. Bobby exchanged a concerned look with Murphy, who merely shook his head and whispered this was probably just Dean's new attitude about most things. According to Murphy's experience and discussions with John, Dean was getting a jump on the teenage aloof surliness.

As was their normal habit, the boys opted to bed down in the library. Sam smiled, explaining that he liked all the books in the room and said he fell asleep after counting them. As expected, Dean wouldn't let Sam out of his sight so that meant he was staying in the room as well. They couldn't both stretch out comfortably on the couch any more without ending up kicking each other in search of leg room. Dean didn't fight Sam for the couch, choosing instead to sleep on the floor so his sick brother could have the softer sleeping spot. Murphy departed for a real bed upstairs, and Bobby sank into his office chair in front of the fire to read in silence and watch as the two of them drifted off. He threw another couple logs on the fire as he got ready to call it a night around 11. He checked on Sam, feeling his forehead for heat and finding none. The boy was making a little noise as he slept, but it sounded mostly like nasal congestion rather than a rattle in his chest. Satisfied he was on the mend and would sleep through the night, Bobby tucked his blankets in a bit tighter, just in case.

He shook his head as he looked down at Dean, twisted onto his side like a broken pretzel on the floor. It was then Bobby noticed the plumes of color on his cheeks were much deeper, an almost angry color. He peered closer and noted the rapid, shallow pace of his breathing. He bent down and touched the boy's cheek and felt the fire under his skin, which also felt rough to the touch and his hair was damp from sweating.

"Dean?" Bobby said urgently, shaking the child awake.

The boy's head lolled backward and his eyes opened barely to slits. He tried speaking but nothing came out as his eyes rolled back and he began convulsing.

"Jim, get down here!" Bobby shouted toward the stairs.

Bare feet padded down the steps almost instantly. The pastor rushed to the duo on the floor and grabbed onto the child's head to keep him from banging it onto the floor.

"What happened?" Murphy asked, feeling Dean's forehead. "He's burning up."

"I got that," Bobby growled and hurried to the kitchen.

He grabbed his phone and dialed frantically. On the couch, Sam stirred awake. He coughed a few times and rubbed his eyes.

What's going on?" he asked with a yawn.

Murphy scooped up Dean and scurried into the kitchen, taking the shaking boy out of the library as Bobby disconnected from his phone call. Murphy said he would look after Sam as he quickly handed off responsibility of the shaking child to Bobby. The hunter nodded curtly once as the pastor returned to the living room to distract Sam and coax him back to sleep with a smooth lie about Dean needing a glass of water.

Bobby was never sure later how he got to the hospital without putting his car in a ditch. He kept one eye on the road and the other on the convulsing bundle on the front seat wrapped in a flimsy blanket. It certainly was the longest 25 minutes of his life up to that point. Dr. Tim Corse, a man familiar with some of Bobby's odder and less logical injuries, met them at the ER bay doors and took possession of the boy. Bobby repeated the few details he knew and watched helplessly as Dean was whisked away by orderlies. He then sat in an uncomfortable plastic chair and waited.

Sometime later, Corse reappeared. He began explaining that Dean had an untreated case of Scarlet Fever, but he did not get much beyond that statement before Bobby interjected.

"That's it?" Bobby asked gaped. "The kid's have a seizure, and you tell me it's just 'cause he's got a rash and a sore throat. Tim, you know I believe in a hell of a lot of things, that diagnosis ain't one of them."

"Believe in this one," Corse replied. "With early detection and treatment, Scarlet Fever is not a problem usually, but this is an advanced case. You said he has a brother? He needs to be checked immediately."

"He's at the house," Bobby said. "He had strep throat recently and he's on meds for that already—almost done them, I think. Wait, you said it was Scarlet Fever; now, it's a throat infection?"

"No, it started as that and got worse," Corse explained. "Bobby, this boy has rheumatic fever. It's advanced."

"Rheumatic fever?" Bobby repeated, feeling a chill in his bones. "Dean hasn't been sick. Sam's the sick one."

"Was he in close proximity to his brother before his brother was on antibiotics?" the doctor asked.

Bobby nodded. Of course, he was. Dean was the one who likely cared for Sam until John returned and was able to get the boy to a doctor. How long Sam was sick before that happened was unknown. That Dean didn't raise notice to his own symptoms was unsurprising to Bobby. He'd want to make sure his brother was well rather than care for himself.

"How advanced?" Bobby asked.

"He's experiencing the major symptoms," Corse replied. "He's got carditis, which is an inflammation of the heart muscle and, as you saw, he's demonstrating Sydenham's chorea."

"Which is what exactly?" Bobby shook his head.

"Sometimes called St. Vitus' dance, it's the rapid movements of the face and arms, which coupled with his fever made his seizure look much worse," Corse explained. "That is not as great a concern as the carditis for me. If we can't get this under control, it can lead to congestive heart failure."

"Heart failure?" Bobby gaped. "He's just a boy."

"And a very sick one at the moment," Corse said direly. "He's already showing shortness of breath. I've got him sedated and on oxygen as we try to bring his fever down and treat the infection. I know this sounds bad, but we can treat him."

Bobby rubbed a calloused hand over his face and found that it was shaking like he was taking a turn around the floor with St. Vitus. He took a steadying breath and asked the question whose answer he feared but needed to know.

"He's going to be alright, isn't he?" the gnarled hunter asked.

"I'm optimistic," Corse replied. "The next few hours are critical. It's a good thing you got him here. You may have saved his life."

Corse then promised he would help fudge the paperwork to keep county social services and billing off Bobby's case once the boy was assigned to a room. The patient needed to stay a few days at least even if he responded quickly to the treatment. With the unsettling news, Bobby called Murphy to report. They agreed they would inform John whenever he called to check on the boys in the next few days. Bobby hoped his own anger would have subsided by then; he knew John would worry about his oldest, but the fact it took something this serious to get the man's attention made Bobby livid.

Bobby remained at the hospital, glowering at any nurse who even thought of telling him he wasn't going to spend the night sleeping in the chair he dragged up to the child's bed. The jarring beep of the heart monitor and the soft hiss of the oxygen pumping the high octane gas up the boy's nose was enough to keep Bobby from nodding off. It was also the stillness of the little body that shook the hunter. Dean was usually a restless sleeper. He twitched and rolled and moved throughout the night; always had since the first time Bobby watched over the boys. Seeing him lying as still as corpse was unsettling.

Sometime around dawn, Dean's sunken and sleep deprived eyes rolled open. Bobby quickly grabbed onto his forearm and spoke, hoping to keep his fear of waking in a strange place at a minimum.

"Dean, I'm right here, son," Bobby said quietly.

"Where are we?" he asked.

Bobby smiled. _We_. Most people would have asked 'where am I?' Not Dean. No, he didn't think of himself usually; he was with Bobby so this was a joint endeavor in his mind.

"You and me are at the hospital," Bobby replied. "You didn't tell your daddy you felt sick?"

"Sammy's sick not me," Dean replied with a scratchy voice. "Where is he?"

He lifted his head weakly and looked around with unfocused eyes. Even in his drugged and fever ridden state, thoughts of watching over his little brother were still fighting through the haze.

"Back at my place with Pastor Jim," Bobby answered. "Probably will be eating the rest of the pie for breakfast soon if you don't get better quick."

Dean whimpered as his head dropped heavily back to the pillows.

"How come you came to the house without a coat?" Bobby asked. "Or did your Dad tell you to let Sam wearing yours because he was sick?"

Dean shook his head and croaked something about doing it himself. It wasn't hard to believe Dean had kept strict silence about his own ailments and then made his own condition worse when he gave up his winter coat for his brother. Sam had grown some since the last year. Perhaps the younger Winchester had outgrown his own. While Bobby considered himself in no position to question the parenting of anyone, seeing as he didn't have kids of his own, he was never fully satisfied with John Winchester's oversight and care of his boys.

Dean closed his eyes again and made a soft, painful whining noise as he tried to hold in a sob and tears. Bobby relented on questioning him about anything that sounded accusatory about John. Dean usually clammed up in those moments. Putting the boy on the spot right now would serve no purpose.

"It's alright," Bobby assured the child, petting his head gently. "You're gonna be fine. They've got good medicine here. Have you all fixed up in no time. Until then, is there anything you want me to get you? Anything at all, Dean. You tell me what it is, and I'll get it."

His eyes open to razor thin slits as he looked up with tears leaking from the corners of his eyes. His fever and exhaustion must have been at their limit Bobby knew because there was no way a lucid and well Dean would give the answer he did. He might think it, but he would never actually say it in other circumstances.

"My mom," Dean whispered painfully as tears squeezed out of his sunken eyes.

The knot in Bobby's throat was large and tightly cinched as he sat on the edge of the bed and wrapped the shaking boy in his arms. He held him and fought his own tears, feeling like a damn idgit for nearly sobbing like an old woman. He swallowed hard a few times before trying to speak again, and when he did he heard the slightest crack in his voice.

"I'm sorry, Dean," he replied. "I guess I promised too much. I can't get that for you."

"It's okay, Bobby," Dean whispered in a shaky, weak voice. "You don't have to do anything. I'll be fine."

Bobby felt his heart tear clean down the middle as the boy tried to make him feel better. Bobby looked down at the child and sighed painfully. From the shift in the kid's breathing, Dean fallen asleep again quickly, cradled in the burly arms of a man who killed fanged and clawed monsters and felt completely helpless while trying to soothe the sick child.

**# # # #**


	5. DRAGONS LIVE FOREVER

Title: ABOUT A BOY

Chapter Five—DRAGONS LIVE FOREVER

# # # #

How and when he got to the kitchen table was a mystery to Sam. He just suddenly found himself seated there, staring through the opening to the library. Bobby sat at his desk with a book or something in his lap. The sun was gone and darkness flooded the air outside; a distant and soft rumble echoed far off warning of a coming storm.

Sam noticed the oppressive quiet in the house. Things weren't often quiet at Bobby's house. Dean had always rattled around in the house, harassed Bobby and Sam. Dean had a quiet way about him, but he didn't like quiet—not all the time. Too much quiet was like loneliness, and Dean hated being lonely. To fend it off, he made noise. He liked noise. He played his music loud; he sang along with it at the top of his lungs; he talked over the music rather than turning down the volume. He revved the engine in his car and liked to chatter and shout during fights.

Sam couldn't exactly recall if Dean had screamed out when he died. Everything sort of stopped in the instant he fell to the floor in the grip of the hellhound. He must have screamed, Sam shook his head, which throbbed mightily as he tried to unearth the memory. How could he not remember the precise sounds from his brother's final moments? It was less than 24 hours ago. Maybe it was a defense mechanism, his mind trying to protect him from some aspect of the tragedy, but Sam didn't want protection. He'd been protected his entire life, by his father and his brother. Now, both of them were dead. One of them was in Hell and who knew where the other was.s

Something else bothered Sam about not recalling the precise sounds from the previous night. What if it was just the first of many things he forgot? What if he forgot the actual sound of Dean's voice? He gripped the phone in his pocket, Dean's phone. Sam greedily called the number several times that day to hear the precise sound of his brother's voice on his voicemail box.

It was all Sam had left of him other than the car and a necklace.

The Winchesters didn't have a library of family movies saved on VHS tapes or burned onto DVD's or compressed into digital files for viewing with a simple click. Sam swallowed hard realizing that the only recent pictures he had of his brother were on their fake IDs. Normal people had school photos and family photos; they had video from holidays and birthdays and school events. The Winchesters certainly were not normal. John made it a point that the boys never went to school on picture day; they didn't usually celebrate holidays, and he never made a big deal out of their birthdays.

But Dean had. He made sure Sam at least got a hostess cupcake or a Twinkie with a candle or a sparkler jammed into it on his birthday every year until he was 15 when Sam announced he was too grown up for such things. The flaming pastry may have disappeared, but the first thing Sam still heard when he woke on that day was "Happy Birthday, Sammy" crowed by his brother—even when Sam wanted the day ignored.

Of course, Sam hadn't minded when his friends at college discovered his birthday and threw a pizza and beer party (illegally in the freshman dorm) on that day. They were cruising toward finals and any excuse for pizza and beer had been welcomed. Sam let them have their fun and their excuse. He was glad for the distraction as he was not nearly as stressed as they were, and it was good to see his friends relax.

**# # # #**

_Stanford University_

_May 2, 2002_

The party in Room 312 of Adams Hall was barely contained to the small room. It was an impromptu birthday bash for the lanky freshman who called the space home. His roommate had moved in with a girlfriend in February, leaving the kid with the room to himself, which made it hang out central for his gaggle of friends. Sam Winchester's room was sometimes called The Asylum because of the bare walls; there was nothing on them that made it home so it looked depressingly institutionalized (that plus the crazy ideas his friends hatched in there probably meant they should have been locked up). Sam studied a lot, but never seemed burdened by it. His door was the revolving sort with friends in an out at all hours. He kept an odd schedule; he was both a night owl and a morning person, it seemed. He was very interested and engaged in his friends and their lives. He knew about their majors and their hobbies because he asked a lot of questions and seemed genuinely interested. The females in the dorm liked that about him and made sure to pass his room whenever possible to peek in or simply call out a flirtatious "Hi Sam" as they sauntered by. One of them also worked in the Registrar's office. She was the one who took a look at his records and found out his birthday was the week before finals began.

When Sam arrived back from his philosophy class that Thursday night, he found a room full of people, a few six-packs and a stack of pizza boxes in the middle of a crowd of friends groaning about the upcoming exams. The room was so loud an hour later that, when the phone rang, Sam almost didn't hear it. Catching the final ring before the machine picked up, he grabbed it and stepped into the hall to hear over the noise of the party.

"Yeah," Sam said into the receiver.

"Yeah?" his older brother's voice carried over the line with a laugh. "So you go off to seek higher education, and you lose your phone manners? I thought I was the one who was rough around the edges."

Sam had opposing reactions upon hearing Dean's voice. There was an anxious charge that was somewhat like worry and a bit like annoyance. He also felt fear as his heart begin to pound. Dean calling happened rarely. Dean calling in the middle of the week, in the early evening, no less was very odd. Dean did not call often, or rather, Dean called but usually didn't catch Sam. Occasionally, Sam's phone would ring at odd times. He would see the 785 area code, the one assigned to northern Kansas and to his brother's cell phone, but Sam always let those calls go to his machine. There were never messages left. Sam couldn't convince himself it was a wrong number. What were the chances that a cell phone assigned to Kansas mysteriously and miraculously dialed his number?

Sam knew those calls were from Dean. Who else would it be? His father certainly wasn't going to call. He made it very clear when Sam left for school that he no longer held a place in their family. So, unless something big happened, and then it would only need to be something terrible happening to Dean, John Winchester would not be calling him.

That thought scared Sam. It was the other reason he didn't want to answer when the Kansas area code called. If it was terrible news, he would rather receive a message. He wasn't sure how he would react receiving it real time. But there was never a message so whatever the issue, it was apparently not important enough to leave word behind about the purpose of the call. That actually settled Sam's mind. He had been away from his family for nine months and (he was mildly ashamed to realize) had never felt better in his whole life. Talking to his father or his brother would just drag him down.

Standing in the hallway, Sam closed his door and stepped further from his room.

"Dean?" Sam replied, dropping his voice.

"Ooo, got it in one," Dean replied. "College boy is smart after all."

"Why are you calling?" Sam asked quickly.

"And I miss you, too, little brother," Dean said flatly.

"Dean, what do you want?" Sam scoffed.

In truth, he feared being told his family was in town. He feared being told they were on campus or would be dropping by to see him. He knew it was unlikely as his father had disowned him. As for his brother, well, Dean always followed their father's lead. Always.

"It's May 2nd," Dean answered. "I was going to call this morning, but I was… uh… a little tied up." He chuckled, slightly painfully at the remark, making Sam wince inwardly at the various possible meanings of the statement. "So, this is my first free moment of the day."

"I'm, uh, a little busy here right now," Sam said quickly. "What do you want?"

There was a pause. Sam could have read any number of things into it. Dean making eyes at some waitress in whatever diner he might be sitting in; Dean putting his phone down briefly to change the station on his car radio; Dean tensing his jaw as he decided what retort he should snap back at his brother for being so clipped with him. Sam imagined all of them and could not figure which one seemed most likely. In the end, he found out he was wrong. Instead, he heard a sigh, a sigh that was quick, like Dean had received slash to the heart or brutal thrust to the ribs. When Dean spoke next, Sam felt the sting from Dean's cold tone.

"It's May 2nd," Dean repeated again plainly. "I was just calling to say Happy Birthday, Sammy, but since you're too _busy _to talk to your family, I'll let you get back to… whatever it is that's more important. Have a happy birthday, little brother."

He hung up before Sam could respond. Not that Sam knew what to say. He was too busy diagnosing the knot in his stomach. That thing, the thing that had been off since he woke up, was now obvious. For the previous 18 years (assuming the ritual began on Sam's first birthday), the first person who spoke to him and the first words he always heard on this day were Dean and his birthday greeting. Sam stared at the phone in his hand, now connected to nothing and no one.

**# # # #**

Six years later, Sam looked at his watch to see the date: May 2nd.

Stanford was a memory and his brother was no longer able to offer birthday tidings. He swallowed hard as sour tastes from his stomach rose in his throat. He hadn't eaten in 24 hours. The only things in his stomach were cheap whisky and viciously black coffee. For the first time in his memory, no one had wished him a happy birthday at all this day; no one had even acknowledged it. Not that Sam wanted anyone to do so. In fact, he wanted to wipe the date from the calendar entirely. His brother was gone, had died at the stroke of midnight on Sam's birthday. Still, Sam managed to become a year older. His only brother, his lifelong protector, had died on the day that marked Sam's first day alive. Because of a terrible deal, his brother was taken from him. In Sam's mind, he would always mark this day from now on for its appalling dichotomy: He was year older because Dean couldn't be.

**# # # #**

Bobby tipped back his glass. He didn't even feel the burn of the liquid at this point. He was numb, at least in some parts of him. His gut wasn't knotted up any more. His head wasn't pounding; it was more like swimming, or doing its version of swimming on the way to the dead man's float. His knees and his shoulders, sore from digging a grave he never wanted to exist, no longer protested with each movement. Those things his self-medicating was tending to just fine.

Unfortunately, that's all it was touching. His heart still ached and his chest felt heavy and tight. He had hoped all day for a coronary (or failing that a stroke) to finish him off. But his tough as a rhino's skin constitution wouldn't let him die, and he kind of hated himself for that. So he sat at his desk with an old shoebox in his lap.

Inside was his tiny treasure trove. A small stack of riches that he kept, hidden away in the nondescript cardboard box tucked at the top of one of his many and littered book shelves. He didn't look in it often. In fact, the last time he had was nearly two years ago on the evening that he received an unexpected call: The Winchester boys were in need of refuge; John was missing and presumed captured by a demon. Sam and Dean had called Bobby when they had nowhere else to turn.

At that time, it had been two years since Bobby had seen or heard from John or Dean; Sam's absence had been longer as he was away at college and taking a sabbatical from all things associated with hunting, including family friends. Following Dean's heartbreaking phone call pleading for help in finding their father, Bobby had pulled the box down. He turned to the box because of the desperation he heard in Dean's voice. The boy had been worried sick over his father's fate but also fearful Bobby might not help because of a falling out he witnessed between Bobby and John prevoiusly. Without a second of pause, Bobby had told the boys to come to his place.

Of course he would open his door to them. He was surprised when they called and a little shocked they were worried he might hang up. If it had been John calling looking for help for himself, Bobby might have been a little stingier, but not for the boys. He couldn't think much he wouldn't do for them. So, feeling oddly nostalgic as the call disconnected, Bobby had sifted through the shoebox that housed the few photos he owned that evening, waiting for the familiar growl of the '67 Chevy's throaty engine.

As he opened the box once again, the one on top had brought a smile to his face instantly, and a flush of embarrassment.

It was snapped by Jim Murphy on the first night the boys were left with him. Bobby learned then that letting a one-year-old nap for five hours in the afternoon meant the kid wasn't going to sleep of his own volition until late that night. He also had to endure the surly looks from the little one's brother that just wreaked of an _'I told you so_.' To his credit, Dean stopped short of being verbally rude about the situation that evening, but his eyes (even then) were as expressive as any words could have been.

"What are you looking at?" Sam asked dully, wandering into the library looking as lost as any movie orphan Bobby had ever seen.

The old hunter looked up, startled by the appearance. He had considered checking on Sam after he stumbled aimlessly into the house and drop dejectedly into a chair at the kitchen table more than an hour ago. But Bobby didn't. There was no point. From his drawn cheeks and puffy eyes, the answer was obvious. The kid was in a bad way.

"Just some old stuff," Bobby offered, gesturing to the pictures and drew out the one he was staring at.

"When was this?" Sam remarked, running his thumb gently over the faces.

"Eons ago," Bobby replied. "Your first night here actually. Jim Murphy took that, said it was proof an old dragon could be a nanny."

"Dragon?" Sam remarked, the word snagged in his memory. "He called you that more than once, didn't he? Something about an old dragon and Jack somebody?"

Bobby looked at Sam with misty, wistful eyes, trying hard to remember that the gargantuan man in front of him was once small enough to sleep cradled in his arms in this room. He smiled sadly as he recalled the exchange that started Murphy's inside joke.

"Yeah," he sighed. "Jim said that picture was blackmail material if I ever said I wasn't appropriate babysitting material. Of course, he conveniently forgot the part where I nearly strangled your brother for interrupting your bedtime story a dozen times."

"Bedtime story?" Sam stared bleary eyed at the image. "You're holding me and a book. There are also a dozen shotgun shells and what looks like a .45 sitting on the table beside us."

"It was a long night," Bobby recalled. "You wouldn't go to sleep, and I was trying to clean some weapons."

"Where was Dean?" Sam asked.

His voice was small and hollow. He sounded fragile, like the energy it took to breath and speak those words was nearly too much for him to manage. He dropped back carelessly onto the couch with the picture still held tight in his fingers. He stared at it as if that could make his brother suddenly appear.

"Sitting on the other end of the couch rolling his eyes at us," Bobby replied. "Like I said, he was busting my balls about your bedtime story."

# # # #

_September 8, 1984_

_10 p.m._

"I'm about to give the kid a shot of whisky if he doesn't go to sleep," Bobby growled as he glared at Murphy who yawned rather than being helpful.

Bobby was padding back and forth across the study carrying the fussy little one. He had been doing this for nearly 40 minutes without any luck. The child was a taut bundle of drool and vocal cords. He wailed and whined and flailed, doing everything he could to fight sleep. Bobby tried pawning him off on Murphy, but the pastor merely shrugged and said he thought it was a good lesson for Bobby to learn. It would help teach him more patience which would, in the end, benefit him someday.

"Like when I stand trial for strangling this little…," Bobby began, but his eyes fell on the child's older brother.

Dean sat on the corner of the couch, also unable to sleep due to his brother's howling, with his arms folded. He sported an expression that made Bobby feel like he was back in third grade with his teacher telling him he was the dumbest kid in the class.

"What's your problem, kid?" Bobby asked, his tone a little sharper than he intended.

"You're doing the wrong thing," Dean said flatly, as if the answer was obvious.

"Am I?" Bobby sneered then looked to Murphy who merely smirked.

"At least he's speaking to you," Murphy noted. "I only got head nods and shakes the first few times I watched him."

Bobby sighed forcefully then changed his tone as he looked at the older child again.

"What's the right thing?" Bobby asked, trying not to sneer.

"Read him a story," Dean huffed indignantly. "That's what he wants."

"A story?" Bobby repeated. He looked at Murphy who shrugged to indicate it seemed like a reasonable solution. "A story? You got any books for him?"

Dean nodded but did not move toward their bag.

Talking to the kid was like pulling Wisdom teeth with pliers. He rolled his eyes and gave clipped, short answers (no doubt his manners and social skills were approved by the Marines). Bobby glared at him, but Dean did not move from his seat.

"You going to get one out for me?" Bobby groused.

"Can't," Dean shrugged. "They're in the back of my Dad's car."

"Great," Bobby scowled as he jostled the fussy baby and seethed. "Fine. He wants a story. I'll get him a story."

Making a decision, he strode over to his bookshelf and removed a heavy tome written in Japanese. The illustrations were not precisely violent or graphic, but they were at least colorful and depicted a variety of winged and scaled beasts (most extinct thanks to his Asian counterparts). Bobby settled heavily into the corner of the couch, adjusting the squalling kid in his lap as Murphy chuckled and snapped a picture before ducking out of the room to laugh. Bobby shot his back a nasty look then opened the book to a random page.

Bobby was not one for fairytales or nursery rhymes unless they held clues to monsters or curses. His music collection was dismal at best, but he had a memory for a lot of things, including things he didn't precisely care about but that just got stuck there anyway. So, he did know one such verse that would, hopefully, cover the bedtime story repertoire for the grumpy one and might just shut up his opinionated and unhelpful brother.

"What's that?" Dean asked in a tone that was equal parts worry and curiosity as he lifted his head in an effort to see the book.

"A story, now shut up and listen," Bobby grumbled.

"A story about what?" Dean inquired.

"Wait a minute, and you'll see," Bobby replied as Sam stared with wide eyes at the colorful drawing. Bobby cleared his throat and began to speak, saying the lyrics in a way that sounded more like a story than a song, he hoped. "Puff, the magic dragon, lived by the sea."

"Dragons?!" Dean exclaimed and shook his head.

"They ain't real, kid," Bobby said sideways.

"How do you know?" Dean asked, his eyes wide and worried.

"Because I'm old and a hunter, and I know things," Bobby replied. "Now, let me read this."

"Is it a scary story?" Dean continued. "You can't read him scary things. He's too little."

"I know what I'm doing, now shut up and listen so you can fall asleep, too," Bobby growled. "Where was I?"

"Dragon with the stupid name of Puff," Dean scowled, looking back at him with a narrow and distrusting gaze.

"Right," Bobby nodded. "So, Puff. Okay, he frolicked…"

"What's a frog lick?" the child wondered.

"Frolick," Bobby corrected, receiving a warning look from Murphy. "It means to play."

"Then why didn't you just say play?" Dean wondered.

"Because dragons like the word frolic " Bobby continued. "They got a union and if you want to talk about 'em you gotta use their words. Contract says that since they're make-believe creatures they need a different word. That okay with you?"

Dean cocked his head to the side, considering the explanation then slowly nodded. His expression melted into something more accepting, giving Bobby the implicit permission to continue.

"Okay, so he frolicked by the sea in the autumn mist in a land called Honah Lee," Bobby began again. He lifted his eyes to the ceiling and bit back a flood of curses as he was interrupted again.

"Like in Star Wars?" Dean interrupted.

"What?" Bobby asked, his frayed concentration further frazzled.

"Han Solo and Princess Lee something," Dean replied. "From Star Wars."

"No, not them," Bobby said sourly through clenched teeth. "I said Honah Lee. It's the name of a place, like a magic island."

"Where the dragons live that aren't real and aren't scary but have an onion?" Dean continued.

The little boy was leaning forward with his hands on his knees. His eyes remained wide and very awake. His brother, however, was no longer squirming. Two of his fingers were stuffed in his mouth and he was chewing on them happily as his lids grew heavy.

"Union, not onion, but yeah that's it exactly," Bobby sighed and rolled his eyes.

"You're sure they're not scary?" Dean asked, looking cautiously at his brother.

"I'm positive," Bobby replied, trying not to bark. "Look, dragons that aren't scary; they eat pie and like Star Wars, okay?"

Dean nodded, satisfied with that assurance. Bobby cleared his throat and, tossing a quick hushing glance at Dean, began his story again.

"So, Puff, of the Honah Lee Puff's, alright?" he began. Dean looked back at him interested and impassive. "We good? Fine. Now, Puff had a friend. His name was Jack, but he was on the short side so people called him Little Jackie Paper. He loved that rascal Puff."

"A boy loved a dragon?" Dean wondered. "Why? Because they were family?"

Bobby took a deep breath and stared at the boy for a moment. His previously unruly charge was now settled and no longer crying. He was going limp and his head was drifting off to the side. His brother, however, was alert. Bobby considered his question and sighed.

"Yeah, sort of," Bobby shrugged then shook his head, resigned to the incessant question and answer period.

The boy had said all of 20 words in the last 10 hours, but suddenly someone had turned on the faucet Bobby couldn't begrudge him a little conversation. While it was annoying, it did seem to calm the younger one somewhat. And, if not for his agitation with having a cranky and tired baby plastered to his chest for the last hour, Bobby knew he might otherwise find some humor in this discussion.

"They ain't blood related or anything," Bobby explained in a more kindly tone. "They're friends, but they're close enough to be family. So, Jackie was a good friend, and he brought Puff gifts when he visited. Things like strings and sealing wax and other cool really useful stuff that I'm not going to mention because it would take too long."

"What did they do with all that stuff?" Dean asked.

"They built a tree house and ear plugs so they didn't have to listen to a lot of questions," Bobby continued, not bothering to look at the inquiring child. "Now, Puff…"

"The not mean magic dragon who likes pie and Star Wars," Dean added helpfully as he nodded.

"Right," Bobby rolled his eyes but caught himself grinning, "he continued to live in his seaside town and frolic in the autumn mists in on that island called Honah Lee. He'd hang out with his good buddy, Jackie Paper, and they'd do all sorts of sh… uh, stuff. Games and things. Together they would travel on a boat with billowed sails, 'cause it's windy around the sea around islands—especially Honah Lee, which is known for gale force winds in the autumn."

Bobby heard the dry chuckle from Murphy and shot him a dagger look, but stopped when the pastor gestured to the other person listening to the story. Dean's green eyes were wide with wonder. All day, Bobby had noted that there was something about the child that was so much older than his age, yet in this moment, he was precisely what he should be: a young child engrossed in a bedtime story.

"When it gets misty, it can be a little hard to see on a boat," Bobby continued, looking more kindly at the boy. "So Jackie kept a lookout perched sitting on Puff's gigantic tail."

"He sat on his tail?" Dean marveled. "What was that like?"

The clouds of worry and fear lifted from the boy's face. Bobby blinked in amazement at how much it changed the child's look from wise and haunted to innocent and giddy. His soft green eyes dazzled at the possibilities of sitting on a dragon's tail. Bobby smiled at him as he answered.

"It's like sitting in the front seat of your Daddy's car with the whole road just stretching out in front of you," Bobby offered, casting a curious glance at the child to see his face staring back at him intensely while his brother appeared to have finally nodded off. "So Puff and Jackie were so cool in their big boat that noble kings and princes would bow whenever they cruised by. Even pirate ships would lower their flag in respect when Puff roared out his name."

"Wow," Dean remarked. "He must have been loud."

"Split your eardrums, boy," Bobby nodded with a smile. He lowered his voice to let the younger one drift deeper into slumber as he coasted softly into the end of the tale. "Now, dragons live forever, but not so little boys…"

He heard a sharp intake of breath causing him to snap his head to the side and look at Dean. He stared back at Bobby with a pale face as he chewed his lip.

"What?" Dean gasped.

Bobby shushed him quickly and shook his head.

"Look, I'm just finishing the story," Bobby explained with a mild shrug. "It just means that dragons—the good kind that like apple pie and Star Wars—live forever but little boys don't."

"Why not?" Dean asked, walking on his knees across the cushion and putting his small hand protectively on his brother. "Do the dragons eat them?"

"No," Bobby shook his head then sighed.

"Does something else bad, like a ghost or a monster, get them?" Dean wondered.

Bobby looked at the boy, who trembled as he spoke. His worried eyes raced between Bobby and his now sleeping baby brother. Bobby shook his head and spoke calmly.

"No," he replied. "They grow up, Dean, so they aren't little boys anymore."

"But what if…?" Dean began.

"Son, listen," Bobby cut him off and spoke quietly. "It's the dragons that get the raw end of the deal. See, Puff's seaside little paradise of Honah Lee, just wasn't the same anymore once his little friend grew up and stopped being a little boy. Puff stopped doing all that stuff that he did before with friend. That's all."

Dean looked back at Bobby, his green eyes shining with tears and his face pale with confusion and fear as he looked from the scraggly hunter to his brother, who was oblivious to the story any longer.

"What happened then?" Dean asked.

His voice was quiet and thin. It wasn't a question asked for simple curiosity or entertainment. There was a need behind his words. His gut told Bobby that he should just say they all lived happily ever after and leave it at that, but the frankness of the boy's tone and the sharpness of his gaze wouldn't let Bobby do that.

This kid knew sorrow. He knew terror. He knew loss, and he knew evil. There was no reason to Disney up the story. Sighing, Bobby completed the story properly.

"A dragon lives forever but not so little boys," he repeated slowly, looking into the pain-filled green eyes. "Painted wings and giant rings make way for other toys. One gray night it happened, Jackie paper came no more. Then Puff that mighty dragon, he ceased his fearless roar."

"So Puff was mad his friend was gone?" Dean asked. He swallowed hard as the tiny tears hugging his lower lids swelled.

"Yes, and sad, too," Bobby explained.

"Did he cry?" the boy asked.

"His head was bent in sorrow," Bobby continued, his own throat feeling a little dry and tight. "Green scales fell like rain. Puff no longer went to play along the Cherry Lane. Without his life-long friend, Puff could not be brave, so the mighty dragon sadly slipped into his cave."

Dean nodded solemnly as he dragged his arm across his eyes. He reached his small hand forward. Bobby thought he was going to reach for his brother, but instead he placed his tiny palm on Bobby's shoulder and offered him a comforting and sincere expression.

"That's really a terrible bedtime story, Bobby," he said.

Then he wrapped his arms around his brother and pulled Sam into an embrace, taking him from Bobby. The hunter stood up and let the two of them settle into the couch; he covered them with a blanket then looked with a lost expression toward Murphy.

"Careful, you gruff old dragon," Murphy whispered, turning out the lights. "You'll end up adopting your very own Jackie Paper."

**# # # #**


	6. NOW MORE THAN EVER

Title: ABOUT A BOY

Chapter Six: NOW MORE THAN EVER

**# # # #**

Bobby shook his head and felt drained. Whether it was the story, the hour, the whisky or the loss, he didn't know. Probably all three, but certainly one more than the rest, he reasoned. He looked up at Sam and his reddened eyes.

"I never liked that folk song," Sam said, wiping his eyes on his sleeve.

"Yeah, me either," Bobby replied, dragging his arm roughly across his face. "Idgit was right. It was a terrible bedtime story."

"Yeah, but… Star Wars?" Sam wondered, shooting a questioning glance at Bobby as he felt dreadful choking in a sudden laugh. "Honah Solo and Princess Lee?"

"I was worried I'd have to make up a family tree for the Puff family so he could differentiate between the Honah Lee and Coco Beach Puffs," Bobby smirked painfully. "I hoped he would lose interest once we got that straightened out. He was more worried I would give you nightmares if the dragons ate little boys rather than cherry pie. Idgit."

"Yeah," Sam nodded, feeling the pain drive deeper into his throat following the laugh.

He blinked hard and swallowed the golf ball sized lump in his throat. Worrying about his little brother started early and never ended for Dean, Sam knew. It was that beyond the call of duty, sometimes oppressive, and usually maddening and suffocating urge to protect him that made this horrible day possible. Anger stirred in Sam's gut, and he gnashed his teeth as he felt it. He was hurting, but he was also pissed. Dean had made a colossal mistake, and it cost him his life. Sam wanted to scream at him and wrap his fingers around his brother's throat to strangle him for it.

Except he couldn't.

Dean was buried in the soft earth of Illinois in a hastily constructed box. Sam dug his hand into his thigh and felt the dull bite of a lump of metal. He fished into his pocket and drew out the amulet he removed from his brother's neck just before they closed his coffin. He stared at it and saw the crust of dried blood on it. His stomach turned, but he dropped the worn leather tie over his head, feeling the weight of the long-ago Christmas gift thud softly against his chest. Dean wore the amulet, as far as Sam knew, nearly every single moment of his life from when he received it until Sam removed it from him. He knew it was taken from him after the car accident two years earlier; Sam held onto it then, too, holding it close as if that would keep Dean tied to him. He picked up the carved metal absent-mindedly and rubbed a thumb over it.

Bobby watched the motion and sighed. His throat clenched as he saw Sam wearing Dean's necklace. Bobby gave the piece to Sam more than 15 years earlier, at the time thinking it was a gift for John. It didn't surprise him that it ended up going to Dean. John was a father in name only. Bobby knew, almost from the moment he met the boys, that Dean was the constant in Sam's life, his best friend and bodyguard; his playmate and protector; his brother and caretaker.

He gazed sadly and wearily at Sam, his heavy head bowed in his hands as he washed his face with his tears. It was a shitty way to spend your 25th birthday, Bobby thought, as he flipped through the other pictures in his shoebox. He wasn't sure Sam was aware what the date was and wishing him good tidings on a day that was anything but worthy of them seemed inappropriate so he said nothing. Instead, he fell silent again kept flipping through his box of memories.

There was a picture of John and Dean, sitting on the back of Jefferson's pick up, shot guns laid across their legs. Dean was maybe 14 in that picture, just transitioning from a child into a man. Bobby was amazed at the contrast between that and the next picture, one of Sam and Dean much younger. Sam was about seven and holding a bow. Dean was beside him, correcting his grip, unaware anyone had snapped their picture. His focus was intense, his gaze on his younger brother both watchful and cautious. There was also pride evident in his eyes. Neither boy knew their picture was being taken. Sam was too focused on his instruction and the target. Dean was too focused on Sam. That was pretty much the story in most pictures of the two. Anytime Dean was in a picture with Sam you could see one of two things: intense focus or absolute adoration. Bobby always thought that if they hadn't been so close in age, you would swear Dean's expression belonged on a father gazing at his only child.

There were a few such shots in Bobby's box. Hunters were not ones for documenting much of anything outside their journals, but most hunters didn't have little kids around when they worked. The Winchester's sort of broke that mold. Bobby had taken some of the pictures, he wasn't even sure why anymore—something Jim Murphy started, he thought. Jefferson and Joshua had taken some as well. Interestingly, rarely was John in the shots with his boys. There were a few pictures of him, usually turning from the camera, walking away weapon in hand too busy for a moment of peace. But the boys were a different story. There were a few shots of Dean with Caleb, sitting on the stoop out front or working on a car in the back bay at the salvage yard. There a few more shots of Sam, first sitting on and then beside, Jim Murphy—usually there was a book involved in those as well. But the shot Bobby was looking for was of a trio. Digging through the meager assortment, he found it and caressed it with his thumb, feeling the tears flood his lids once again.

The picture was taken early one morning just in the next room, on a different birthday, some seven years earlier.

It had been a brutally cold January day following a blizzard that left some three feet of snow blanketing the southeast corner of South Dakota. There was no way to hunt if you couldn't get out of your house so Bobby was grounded. So were his visitors.

The Winchester boys (sullen and sulking 17-year-old Sam and his mercilessly teasing then 20-year older brother), arrived on his doorstep followed swiftly by Caleb two days before the storm in search of warmth and a place to rest while they rode out the blizzard and licked their wounds from a recent and (if Dean's broken arm and Caleb's broken nose were any indication) bumpy hunt. According to Caleb's account, Sam and John had been at each other's throats (unsurprisingly) for weeks. So once the poltergeist in Grande Island, Nebraska, was roasted, the boys and their father's friend went in one direction and John, hot on the trail of a possible necromancer, took off in another.

From the moment the trio tromped into the house, Bobby knew something was under Sam's skin. Dean was, as ever, doing his best to pretend everything was alright (while also pretending his broken bones didn't hurt). Caleb merely rolled his eyes, doing his best to stay out of Winchester family politics, and headed for the bedroom at the end of the hallway upstairs searching for a few hours of oblivion. When morning rolled around, he was to be found in the kitchen partaking in Bobby's liquid tar as Sam scuffed into the kitchen with his hair lank and messy and with a brooding scowl on his face.

"Good morning, Princess," Caleb chuckled. "Oh, sorry, Sam. From the look of your hair, I thought you were this lady I met in Fort Collins once."

Sam rolled his eyes and took his ribbing well. Caleb, like his father and Dean, leaned toward the military bend where Sam was more… Well, John tossed around the word hippie when he was really cranky, but Sam didn't think it was that bad. It was a little shaggy and tousled, but it fit him. He wasn't 'all squared away;' he was a free thinker and saw no point in appearing otherwise. He had a lot on his mind; there was a letter in his duffle bag that was sure to start World War III with his father, and he wasn't sure how and when to fire the opening shot. He had applied to and been granted acceptance at Stanford University with the possibility of a full scholarship. It was his dream come true, and it was his family's greatest nightmare. Sam had been stewing over this for more than a week, and the sparks during the recent hunt hadn't helped any.

He grumbled something at Caleb then ran his fingers through his hair, pushing it out of his eyes as he glanced at the calendar. The date jumped out at him.

"It's the 24th," Sam sighed and hung his head.

"He really is the smartest kid we know, Bobby, isn't he?" Caleb smirked.

"Gifted," Bobby nodded. "Definitely. I had to look at that calendar for two whole hours to figure that out."

"No, I mean, today is January 24th," Sam shook his head.

"Is it really?" Caleb teased. "That why there's snow outside? Here I was thinking this was a real freaky storm for July."

"No, guys," Sam turned and stared at them. "It's…"

He sighed and shook his head, his bangs falling in his eyes again. He was tired and sore from their hunt, but mostly he was pissed now that he had had words with his brother, angry and insulting words like "stupid" and "idiot" first thing after he woke up to find Dean awake and heading to the shower.

"Didn't sleep much I take it," Bobby wondered, suppressing a grin as he poured his coffee.

"Hey, maybe he realized that couch is worst than sleeping on concrete," Caleb offered. "You're right. He is gifted. That only took, what, 16 years for him to figure it out. We're damn proud to know you, Sam."

"The couch isn't that uncomfortable," Sam said while stretching his neck.

"Well, you could always do something really crazy like, I don't know, sleep in one of the damn beds upstairs," Bobby offered. Caleb laughed with him.

"I was reading," Sam explained, hunching his shoulders as he had begun doing two years earlier when he suddenly grew a foot taller just after turning 15. "Just makes sense to be in the library for that."

"Uh huh," Bobby nodded. He had long ago stopped trying to figure out what didn't need figuring with Sam.

"I was going to sleep on the floor, where I could stretch out more," Sam huffed indignantly. "I said I would. I mean, Dean's arm is killing him—not that he'll admit it, but…"

"Pretty Boy claimed the floor for himself and let you have the couch?" Caleb chuckled knowingly. "Not enough room at the inn again, I guess."

The two older hunters each looked to the rumple of blankets in pile where Dean had slept before dragging himself gingerly to the shower—all the while claiming he didn't need help and didn't feel any pain. His complexion was a pale green and rivaled the color in his eyes, but Bobby didn't pry. He let the boy live with his delusions once in a while.

"Why does Dean always do that?" Sam asked angrily. "Both bones in his forearm are broken, clean across. I told him to sleep on the damn couch and that I would take the floor."

"But by some unforeseen turn of events, a miracle occurred and he didn't do that?" Bobby asked in mock surprise. "Color me shocked."

"I said he could have the couch," Sam argued. "He agreed that he would, too. He said when I was finished reading, we'd switch places."

"You fell asleep reading?" Caleb asked with a phony gasp. "Big brother somehow forgot to wake you up to swap? Wow, I did not see that coming. How 'bout you, Bobby? You as amazed as I am?"

"The very foundations of my universe have been shaken," Bobby remarked flatly as he sipped his coffee and rolled his eyes.

Sam glared at both men, the anger and the anguish for his brother and their current spat stained deeply on his young face.

"I called him stupid," Sam admitted in a sulking voice.

"Hardly the first time," Caleb chuckled. "All things considered, kind of accurate today."

"Guys, I did that this morning," Sam protested. "Today!'

"He's not singing the chorus of a Neil Diamond song is he?" Caleb remarked. "For that, John might finally disown him."

"Quit screwing around!" Sam snapped. "I forgot, okay? I totally forgot today's Dean's birthday until just now. Guys, I feel terrible. No one remembered."

Bobby smiled then stood from his chair. He passed Sam and reached into the cupboard near the sink. He pulled out a small white package with a red apple design on it. When Caleb had called from the road the day before to say they were heading in his direction and would get waylaid there by the storm, Bobby hit town for provisions. Beyond extra food and beer, he picked up the single serving of grease, flour, fruit-like goo and sugar wrapped in the handy packaging.

Sam looked at the pathetic offering and grinned.

"Thanks, Bobby," he smiled gratefully.

"Well, this will be worth a picture," Caleb snorted, walking to the cabinet in the library that held the ancient Polaroid that Bobby owned and still had film for. "That tiny package is an insult to birthdays, boys. A stale fucking Hostess Apple Pie is the most pitiful excuse for a birthday cake in the history of birthdays. I can't wait to see his face when you give him that."

"Fifty bucks says he acts like it's big enough to hide a stripper in it and twice as lavish," Bobby remarked holding out his hand. Caleb shook his head. It was a fools bet, he knew.

"It's better than a cake," Sam grinned as he heard bare feet padding down the stairs. "It's pie."

Dean entered, walking straight to the coffee pot. He turned, slowly and eyed his fellow hunters over the top of his cup as they stared his way with a sliding scale of smiles (Caleb, a one-sided smirk; Bobby, a full grin; and Sam genuinely beaming). Dean cautiously looked down, wondering if he'd forgotten to put on pants or something. His hair was damp and the bite of pain from his broken bones still evident in the dark circles under his eyes. He held his casted arm tight to his chest as he raised an eyebrow, asking them to obvious question: _What did I miss?_

"Happy Birthday, Dean," Sam said loudly and crossed the room quickly to hug his brother.

Although he responded with a growl and a muffled comment about Sam needing to buy himself tampons the next time he got a haircut, Bobby spotted the rare, unguarded emotion on Dean's face. When Bobby stepped forward to offer him sorry excuse for pie (the mass produced pastry that would no doubt end up being his breakfast along with a few Tylenol for the pain in his arm), Caleb snapped the picture: Dean, standing between his brother (who's arm was draped around his shoulders) and Bobby (who beamed back at him like a doting father), was smiling, sincerely and joyfully.

This, Bobby knew, was one of the sporadic and exceptional days in the boy's life. It was one he had enjoyed from start to finish; Bobby had heard him remark in the intervening years that of all his birthdays, it had been his favorite (at least since his fourth birthday; that one standing out in his mind only because it was the last he spent with his mother).

**# # # #**

Bobby's hand shook as he held the photo gingerly between his fingers. His eyes grew misty and the image dimmed as he inhaled sharply, choking back the sob. His initial inclination was to hand the picture to Sam, to let him have it, as a way to remember his brother in a happier and simpler time. But he couldn't part with the photo. It was, after all, the only picture he had of him with both boys, his boys, in it.

Sam looked up at him, questioning the sudden reaction, but said nothing. He gave Bobby his moment and let him compose himself while Sam poured himself the remaining splash of amber liquid from the bottle on the table. He took a strong gulp of it as he heard Bobby gain control of his breathing. The old hunter took a ragged breath then sighed in defeat. He looked up at Sam with watery eyes and felt his heart wince from the pain evident on the younger hunter's face.

"You're looking extra beat there, kid," Bobby noted and nodded toward the couch. "If you're not going to eat anything, you should lay down before you fall down."

"What are you looking at now?" Sam asked rather than acknowledge the observation.

"What was," Bobby said, closing the lid, shutting the pictures away. "Maybe you should get some sleep."

He placed the box on the desk top for Sam to peruse if he wished, but he just turned his head way and sat heavily on the couch.

"Feel like I'm sleep walking right now," Sam said tightly. "I keep waiting to wake up."

"Some nightmares happen when you're awake," Bobby counseled.

"You know, with Dad…," Sam began. His voice shook. He gripped his hands together tight to get a hold on himself as he took a deep, and unsteady breath. "I didn't think anything could hurt more than that… ever. I got through that because… because of Dean. He didn't deal with it well himself. He… He pretended it didn't happen and when he couldn't, he acted surly and erratic. I watched him tearing himself up inside and just hurting more than he knew how to say. He was just swallowing all his pain and that made me worry about him. For the first time, in my life, I was the one worrying about him. I thought it was finally my turn to repay him for… all he had done for me all through the years. It was like, now it was my job to… watch out for him. I got through losing Dad because Dean was there, and he needed me. And then he told me what Dad said about me. He shouldn't have…"

"Have what?" Bobby asked, knowing this was already chewed ground but knowing Sam couldn't let it go. "Have let you go? Sam, you know as well as I do, even if your Dad hadn't said any of that to Dean, he'd still have done… what he did. He was going to do whatever he could and whatever he knew to save you—and let's face it, growing up like you two did, he knew plenty."

"He shouldn't have done this," Sam seethed.

Bobby shook his head. There was no response to that. Yeah, he agreed with Sam, but he also was glad the boy was able to sit across from him and be pissed at his now deceased brother.

"And now…" Sam said through clenched teeth. "How am I supposed to…?"

"Same way anyone else would," he counseled with a listless shrug. "You take it one minute at a time until you can do one hour and then… and then."

"No," Sam said through a harsh whisper as tears flowed freely down his face. "That's not enough. I'm going to fix this. I'm not giving up. I'm not letting him down. Dean needs me now more than ever."

"Kid," Bobby sighed and shook his weary and bleary head, tears finally and silently streaking down his ruddy face, soaking into his beard. "Sam, don't do this to yourself. I know you miss him more than words can describe. You loved him, you still do-always will. Me, too, and losing him hurts so bad you don't want to draw your next breath, but you got no choice. There's no easy way to do this so you just gotta gut it out and swallow it. Your brother is gone. Dean ain't coming back."

Sam stood resolutely but on unsteady legs. He shook his head firmly and strode from the room a mishmash of ideas and half-formed plans involving the Colt, the Devil's Gate, a better deal with a crossroads demon and (of course) killing Lilith filling his addled brain.

"Like hell he isn't," Sam said lowly and stalked upstairs.

**# # # # **

**A/N:** Hope you enjoyed the rambling. This is not my normal approach to a story, but I felt like trying something different. I'll be posting other Supernatural fics in the future—longer stories with an actual plot (hopefully). Thanks for coming along for the ride.


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